


flightless bird, american mouth

by tatelangdon



Category: tylate
Genre: Animal Death, M/M, Self Insert, heavy thoughts of suicide, im so gay, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 15:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18368801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatelangdon/pseuds/tatelangdon
Summary: it’s hard to fall in love when you don’t think you deserve to be.





	flightless bird, american mouth

The first time that Tate met Tyler wasn’t anything of a fairy tale. In fact, none of their relationship really was. They didn’t have a fantasy narrative that was woven together with the silk threads of fate, but it was their own. Clumsy, awkward, frustrating, and overwhelming, but still theirs nonetheless. Not even God could take that pride away from the two of them. 

 

This story begins in a waiting room. 

 

The first time Tate met Tyler was in the hazy dead of winter, squished into a plastic chair. A therapy session was running late and long overdue, a line of patients piling up in the limited waiting room seats. 

 

So, here he sat, pressed against the side of a heavyweight man with the shakes. The clock ticking above the reception desk informs Tate that his session was supposed to take place over an hour and a half ago. Some people have been waiting longer than him, and they’re easy to identify. Look for the ones with furrowed eyebrows and angry, tense muscles. Tate’s been waiting, but he doesn’t join the club of clenched fists and disturbed frowns. He sits patiently, his hands folded in his lap, his thumb twisting the ring adorning his opposite hand. 

 

The door swings open with a gentle ring, the bell suspended above the entry rumbling with noise. Everyone in the waiting room lifts their heads, turning their attention towards the newest addition to this waiting game. 

 

A strong wind enters before the stranger does, sending chills up the sleeves of Tate’s sweater. Goosebumps rise on his skin as he watches the petite figure step into the office, their head ducked down as they attempt to shake the cold from their clothes. The door shuts with a heavy thud, causing the newcomer to jump up in surprise. 

 

When they lift their face, Tate sits forward. 

 

Everyone else in the waiting room is well into their adulthood, burdened by the stresses and disorders that come with living in the “real world.” This one, however, this young one… he’s not like anybody else sitting in impatient chairs. 

 

His cheeks are flushed from the cold, round and smoothed like two ripening apples. There’s a pair of light eyes hidden behind thick frames, but Tate can’t identify the exact hue from this distance. The boy has chapped lips that tell their own stories, bitten and chewed from a nervous habit that Tate can identify from the way the shoes capping off the little legs fidget impatiently. The stranger lifts his hands up, sliding fingerless gloves off of his palms and stuffing them in the pocket of his camouflage jacket. He brings his freed hands up to that messy hair, ruffling the snowflakes out of his obsidian stained locks. 

 

There’s one seat available, and the two boys seem to realize it at the exact same moment. 

 

Tate looks away as the mysterious boy approaches, Tate’s ankle pushing against the leg of the chair next to his to create a little bit of space between the two of them. However, when the chair scrapes against the linoleum, he quickly repositions his foot back on the ground and allows the male to sit next to him. 

 

The adults all lost interest in the teenager once the door slammed shut, but Tate can still feel those chills settling in the base of his spine. Silence fills the room, well…  _ near _ silence. 

 

There’s a door on the west side of the waiting room that leads down a hallway Tate has walked down many times before. His psychiatrist is located in the office at the end of the hall, but the yelling echoes throughout the chamber and leaks out through the closed door anyway. 

 

Tate’s not sure what they’re saying, the voices are muffled  _ just  _ enough for him to not be able to eavesdrop. The argument carrying out down the hall has been the only song they’ve gotten to listen to for the past hour and a half, a scratched record of a broken marriage. 

 

Tate turns his attention back to the one next to him, his peripheral vision surveilling the way that the boy next to him sheds the coat off of his tiny frame, folding it neatly to hold in his lap. 

 

In a fit of bravery, Tate turns his head all the way, and he faces that curved jawline hidden beneath a curl of raven black hair. The boy doesn’t look up, he’s busy idly tugging on a loose thread hanging off the sleeve of his turtleneck. 

 

“What d’you think they’re fightin’ about?” Tate asks, his voice so quiet that the question can’t be mistakenly directed towards anybody else except for the pretty one next to him. 

 

The boy’s eyes shoot up, surprised and startled.  _ They’re green,  _ Tate thinks to himself.  _ Springtime blooming beneath the melting snow.  _

 

“Oh, um…” the boy trails off, looking away with a bashful grin. He chuckles under his breath, letting his oil spill hair hide the embarrassed parts of his face. “Not sure. I’m not one to understand romance.” 

 

Tate smiles, his skin warming up as he can feel a flush of heat floating up the back of his neck. He knows this feeling, it’s familiar, but it is not a safe one. 

 

“That’s funny,” Tate remarks, despite the fact that he didn’t laugh. He smiles, though. He feels his dimple dip in, and that’s an unfamiliar reaction that he hasn’t felt in months. 

 

A silence lasts between them for a few moments, then the other boy goes “What are you here for?” 

 

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” Tate replies without hesitation, a natural quip that lashes out before he can process the words. He’s used to having to fight, his mind is set on one track; defense. 

 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean-“ the male’s voice softens up, dropping in volume drastically. He looks away, his shoulders stiffening up as he leans away from Tate. The next words that come out of his mouth are merely a whisper, a cautious “My bad.”

 

Tate realizes the effect of his words, turning to look down at the floor. He didn’t… He didn’t  _ mean  _ to make this kid feel bad, and yet the body language radiating next to him only symbolizes that that’s exactly what Tate did. 

 

A strange, painful pang echoes in Tate’s chest, his ears hyperfixating on the sounds of arguing. The voices seem like they’re getting closer, closer, and closer, until he can’t even hear his own thoughts. The yelling isn’t down the hall anymore, it’s ricocheting throughout Tate’s mind. 

 

“I went through a bad breakup a few months ago,” Tate says, trying to sound less harsh and guarded. He glances at the boy next to him, seeing his eyes do the same kind of side-eye suspicion. “I come here to talk about it amongst other things.” 

 

Those  _ other things  _ are unspeakable to strangers, especially a stranger that he doesn’t want to scare away for some reason. This is a single-serving interaction, like those tiny little shampoos they give you in hotels. For one time use. Tate will never see this boy again, so he shouldn’t care if the boy is scared of him or not. 

 

It’s not like it  _ matters _ …

 

“I’m sorry,” the male says, blinking his wide mint eyes up at Tate’s stone colored gaze. He offers a kind smile, the corners of his mouth curling in a way that resembles a cozy feline. His cheeks glow with fondness, a tiny peony garden persisting through the harsh winter that is the male’s fair skin complexion. His next line is in a voice that sounds different to Tate, like it’s a little more amplified than most people’s. He hears it over the yelling in his mind, a clear sentence that ceases all the bad thoughts that were circling through his brain. Simply, but genuinely; “I hope you feel better.”

 

And then Tate looks away, because it  _ does  _ begin to matter. 

 

[***]

 

The warm breeze greets Tate as he leaves the office, his session for the week officially over. They’ve started to feel more like a chore, and less like help. He doesn’t think he’s getting better, but his therapist will not allow him to cease treatment. He can’t blame them, he knows he’s not exactly…  _ well _ , per se. He just doesn’t want it to feel like a temporary imprisonment, sixty minutes of a ball and chain weighing him down to the bottom of the ocean. 

 

“Hey, it’s you!” A voice calls out from behind Tate. It sounds as inviting as the warm April air, so Tate turns without hesitation, drawn to that little fix of relief that the warmth brings his aching bones. 

 

When Tate turns, he sees the youthful face of none other than that boy that made him feel something less than three months ago. Tate’s eyes meet his, and while the green irises seem entirely inviting, Tate feels threatened by their appeal. Nobody looks at him like that, nobody sees Tate and has a face that fond. 

 

“Hey,” Tate responds. He watches the boy; skinnier jeans than last time, a knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in an attempt to escape some of the heat trapped within, yet still wearing a beanie. Tate looks at him apprehensively, unsure if he wants to engage with the boy that made him feel all those scary, strange things last time. 

 

“Uh-“ the boy hesitates. He didn’t think this through, he’s now caught stumbling over his words. What was he supposed to do once he got past saying hello? He takes a deep breath in, and tries to force a bit of a smile. “I haven’t seen you in forever. We met that day when-“ 

 

The boy stops mid-sentence, frowning deeply. Tate takes a cautious step backwards, his body feeling insecure with the decaying pierce of disapproval etching its way into his corpse. 

 

“-Sorry,” the boy exhales, shaking his head. “Sorry, sorry. I have a stutter and it only acts up when I’m n-nn-nervous, and…”

 

Tate stands there, staring at the weirdo sitting on the bench outside the therapy office. There’s a book bag resting at his feet, the flowers planted on either side of the bench creating an innocent look for the scene. Rays of the sun bounce off of the yellow flower petals, cancelling out some of the red on the boy’s cheeks. 

 

Despite the weird behavior, Tate still steps forward and takes a seat on the bench next to the boy. Tate can feel the male stiffen, nervous energy bouncing back and forth between the two of them, yet… excited. Interested. Intrigued. 

 

“What’s your name?” Tate asks. 

 

“Tyler,” the male looks up at him, squinting against the bright sun that backlights Tate’s silhouette. He holds a hand up to shield his eyes, giving Tate clear access to the numerous rings that litter his knuckles like a landfill cluttered with silver candy wrappers. “Some people call me TJ.”

 

“Some people call me Tate,” Tate responds, followed by a shy smile. “Probably because that’s the only name I have.” 

 

Tyler giggles and looks away, dropping his hand down to his side. Tate looks at it on the bench, the nimble fingertips, the way that a red tint is flush underneath each protruding knuckle. Delicate hands, much like the ones of an artist. Tate can’t see the underside of the hand, but if he were to look, he’s fairly positive that he would find fresh fingertips. Nothing hardened or calloused, just soft hands. Artists make their strokes with gentle, precautious care, they are delicate and forgiving.

 

“I should go. My mom will kill me if I’m home late,” Tyler then announces, picking up that bag off the ground. He doesn’t make any attempt to move, however. He remains seated with a shy smile on his face. 

 

Tate watches him, curious as to what’s going on in the other one’s mind. Tyler fidgets with the strap on his backpack, restless hands once again proving Tate’s anxious theory. This boy is a creature of nervous habit, it’s evident in the way he bounces his leg. 

 

“Maybe we could get coffee sometime,” the boy asks, his voice shy and wavering, as if he himself isn’t sure that he wants to do that. He avoids Tate’s gaze, but Tate doesn’t take offense to that. He knows all too well how it feels to be afraid of rejection. “So that I can see you again.”

 

Tate falters, his mind running blank. How’s he supposed to respond in this situation? He hasn’t had anybody show interest in him… in months. The right thing to do is to accept, right? He wouldn’t mind coffee, and certainly wouldn’t mind making a new friend. He smiles at the idea of it; finally having someone to talk to besides his doctors. Could this be something? Something worth trying for? Tate sort of gave up once his heart was broken, but now he’s starting to see the glimmer of a silver lining in that dark gray storm cloud that’s been haunting him since the breakup. 

 

“Okay,” he says, smiling. The dimples go in. All at once, as if the dam is broken down and normal responses flood in at high speeds, he starts spitting out everything that comes to his excited, jittery mind. “Okay, yeah. Yeah. We can get coffee, I know of a little place down by the river, if you want. It’s like a twenty minute walk from here, so, you know. Not that far. What time? What day? We could go, um, this weekend. I’m available.” 

 

The little one hesitates, overwhelmed by the sudden response he’s gotten. He blinks a few times, his mind trying to process everything that was just thrown at him, a chaste smile taking over his features. Nervous, but just as excited. 

 

“Okay,” he stands to his feet. “Yeah. I’m busy Saturday, but we can do it Sunday. Is that okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Tate rubs his hands on his jeans, watching as the boy begins to walk backwards down the street. Neither of the two want to break eye contact, it’s all just so new to them. This unexplored thing. The  _ possibility  _ of what this unexplored thing might  _ become.  _ Nervous little teenagers fumbling around in the silent dark, trying to find something to grip onto. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Hopefully your mom-“

 

Tate is cut off by the loud scoff that comes out of Tyler’s mouth. He rolls his eyes, a playful expression that has an underlying tone of some hurt in it. Tate recognizes that flicker of misery in Tyler’s eyes, he knows the look of someone who hates living at home, only because he sees that same face every morning in the mirror. 

 

Tyler says, “Fuck my mom. I’ll meet you here at eleven. It’s supposed to storm by noon, we can watch the rain.”

 

Tate’s all in now. His interest is only piqued the more this boy talks, each thing to come out of his mouth sounding like a beacon of hope. His therapist always told him it would get better, he’d just have to wait. Tate didn’t  _ want  _ to wait, but maybe his waiting is over. 

 

Another thing his therapist says is that Tate places too much of his happiness in other people, and that he is only setting himself up for disappointment and failure by giving them the responsibility of saving his life. 

 

Tate doesn’t care. The tiny boy holds up finger guns, grinning at Tate as he walks away. Then, all at once, he pirouettes into a spin and begins to briskly walk away. His legs may be little, but they move fast. He’s turning at the corner of the block before Tate can even register how far he’s gotten in such a short time. 

 

_ Things will be different this time,  _ he tells himself with a hope that sounds as desperate as a prayer.  _ This time, it won’t hurt. I’ll be different.  _

 

_ This one won’t hurt me.  _

 

What he should be thinking, however, is that  _ he  _ won’t hurt  _ this  _ one. 

 

[***]

 

Tyler is as early to this as he is everything else in his life. Punctuality causes his heart rate to quicken, a habit of obsessively checking the time having developed at a young age. 

 

Tate approaches the bench they sat on a few days ago, seeing the boy tapping his foot and checking his watch for the eighth time since Tate first saw him sitting there. 

 

“Ah, man, I’m not late, am I?” Tate announces his arrival, stopping in front of the bench to look down at the person waiting for him. 

 

Tyler lifts his head with a smile, his face different in this lighting. His eyes seem brighter, but his complexion is far cloudier. Tyler was right, it is about to storm. Gray clouds hang low in the sky, casting shadows all over the planet. A bit of lightning illuminates the distant horizon for a brief second, and in that second, Tate can see just how bright Tyler’s eyes are. As if… As if they light up at the sight of Tate. 

 

“No, no! Don’t worry, you’re fine,” Tyler checks his watch again. “I’m just weird. If I’m not  _ doing  _ something, I watch time really closely.” 

 

Tate offers his hand out to the male, who accepts it graciously. As expected, Tyler’s hand is as soft as a baby who has never had to work a day of its life. Not that Tate assumes Tyler doesn’t work, just that he’s gentle about whatever is that he does. He handles things with care, precision, and it’s evident that he is a gentle lover. 

 

Tyler rises to his feet, a whole eight inches shorter than Tate. The height difference doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them, but they don’t speak a word of it into the air.

 

Tate says, “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being weird.” 

 

“You’re only saying that because  _ you’re  _ weird,” Tyler remarks, a challenging look upon his face. 

 

Tate drops the boy’s hand once he’s completely stood up, taking a moment to notice the umbrella that Tyler is carrying by his side. He looks up at the sky, noting the stirring clouds, and thinks that Tyler is far smarter than he is for bringing a precaution along with him. 

 

Tate leads the way to the coffee shop, making small talk about the different flavors that people come up with nowadays. They both agree that the simpler the better, but Tyler adamantly swears that coffee tastes better when it’s cold. As a result, when they arrive at the coffee shop, he orders an iced frappe just to spite Tate in a teasing manner. 

 

“You’re ridiculous,” Tate carries both of their drinks to the table that Tyler picked out. It’s the back booth next to a large window, and the boy presses his side right up against the glass, a longing gaze transfixed outside as if he’s never been out into the real world. 

 

“It’s good, sir,” Tyler remarks without looking at him. 

 

Tate tries to spot whatever it is that’s caught Tyler’s attention, but all he sees is a bunch of pedestrians trying to find shelter before the storm can hit. He looks back at Tyler, his eyes ghosting along the edges of the male’s soft features. He’s a bit different, doesn’t really look like most guys. He stands out to Tate, but he can’t quite put his finger on the reason as to why. 

 

“What are you watching?” Tate asks, earning the attention back. He smiles, basking in Tyler’s gaze whenever that gift is bestowed upon him. Usually, Tate likes to be invisible. However, he wouldn’t mind being in the spotlight if this man is to be the one watching him. 

 

“People,” Tyler responds. He smiles, stirring a bit of his coffee. The ice cubes can be heard hitting the porcelain sides of his cup, the plastic straw identifiable as well. “People tell all these crazy stories with how they act, and how they walk, stuff like that. If you look hard enough, you can read them. I think that’s waaay cooler than any kind of book I might read.” 

 

“Really?” Tate asks, his eyebrows raised. “Then what’s my story? Don’t hold back, I want you to dazzle me.”

 

Tyler’s eyes travel down the length of Tate’s face, admiring each individual feature there is to his appearance. Whether it’s the permanent bedhead that Tate seems to have, or the striped sweater covering the insecure parts of his body, Tyler thinks they’re all sort of endearing. Tate has these long eyelashes that make up for how pitiful his eyes are, as well as naturally pink lips to hide the fact that they’re almost always frowning. A freckle on the nose, a fallen eyelash beneath his eye, a scar curling around the side of his wrist that leads to more. He’s an interesting one, a bit difficult to read, but not impossible. Tyler takes pride in his scrutinizing gaze, which somehow doesn’t make Tate feel uncomfortable. Tyler can stare like this forever, if that’s what he wants. 

 

“You’re a lot nicer than you think you are,” Tyler says. “You don’t… You don’t believe that. Maybe someone told you that you aren’t and I think you took it to heart. You don’t see much in yourself, but you should.”

 

Tate sits back a little, alarmed by the astute observation. His throat goes dry, palms tingling like there’s a thousand needles in each of them. He didn’t expect to feel so exposed, but those analyzing eyes make Tate feel vulnerable. 

 

“What else?” He asks. The natural curiosity he has is going to kill him faster than it’s ever killed any cat. 

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tyler shrugs. He wipes some of the whipped cream off the top of his mug, sticking his finger in his mouth. Tate watches his lips, the way they wrap around his knuckle as he slowly slides his finger out. The tip of his tongue peeks out to wipe the remaining whipped cream off, breaking Tate from his trance. “Don’t wanna freak you out by going all third-eye psychic on you.” 

 

“You won’t freak me out,” Tate shakes his head, taking his first sip of coffee. It hits the back of throat with a pleasant warmth, that heat spreading throughout his body as it travels down his throat. “Nothing freaks me out.”

 

“Nothing?” Tyler looks up, his eyes flashing with a challenge oh so dangerously. Tyler is competitive, but so is Tate. 

 

“Not a thing,” Tate shakes his head, smirking down at the table as he traces his thumb along the rim of his mug. 

 

“What if I told you, like, I sleep in a grave and let maggots crawl up my nose,” Tyler’s grin is childish, his fingers wiggling up near his face in faux re-enactment. 

 

“Then I would tell you that I  _ eat  _ maggots for breakfast,” Tate responds, his smile spreading. Pressure comes off his shoulders, some of the clouds lifting away from his mind. Maybe it’s just temporary, but he doesn’t care. He can see the sun for a few moments, and after months of cold dead winter, the fleeting rays are all he needs. 

 

“Ohh, gross!” Tyler laughs, reaching across the table to push on Tate’s wrist. 

 

“Like Rice Krispies,” Tate nods, continuing the bit. “Snap, crackle, pop.” 

 

“Okay, well, I totally live in a crypt and I, like, eat children’s  _ toes _ ,” Tyler continues, pointing at Tate as if he’s implying Tate can’t top that. 

 

“Every harvest moon I turn into a monster with eight heads and five arms,” Tate doesn’t miss a beat. 

 

“Five? Where’s the odd arm?” Tyler then frowns in confusion, a slight pout adorning his young features. 

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tate responds, hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup. 

 

Tyler is thrown off his game, caught off guard like a deer in the headlights of love. His cheeks deepen into a rich burgundy, giving his face that velvet texture that Tate is starting to feel more and more drawn towards. When Tyler’s embarrassed, he chews on his bottom lip out of pure nervousness, and Tate thinks he really likes seeing that flustered face. 

 

“Well,” Tyler looks away, trying to correct his expression, huffing his chest out just slightly. “I’m literally a demon, so.”

 

“Really? Do you have any stories? I like stories,” Tate sits forward. 

 

“Yeah, c’mere,” Tyler waves him forward, so the two lean onto the table towards one another. Tyler’s height causes him to stand to his feet to lean, but he meets Tate halfway across the table with those twinkling eyes that Tate will later on come to find out are his  _ I’ve got a plan, and you just became part of it _ starry gaze. “I can make your muscles tense, blood pressure spike, and make it feel like your organs are rearranging themselves. My enemies consider it the  _ worst  _ kind of torture.”

 

“Really?” Tate scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit. You can’t-“ 

 

Tyler leans forward, pressing his lips to Tate’s forehead. It’s a delicate touch, his lips pressing against the messy hair perpetually falling down into Tate’s eyes. He even makes the little kiss noise when he pulls away, sitting back down in his seat and taking another swipe at whipped cream as if nothing just happened. 

 

Tate’s body freezes, and he slowly lowers himself back down into his seat. He’s stunned with shock, his ears heating up as he tries to recover from what just occurred. He feels like that kiss went through his skull, curing any chemical imbalance that’s been tormenting Tate his whole life. The kiss alone works better than any of the medication he’s been put on, euphoria rushing in at an infinite number of milligrams. His muscles tense, his blood pressure spikes, and his organs feel like they’re rearranging themselves. 

 

It doesn’t take much to convince Tate. He feels those moths fluttering inside him, anxious and trapped, his lungs feeling like nothing but a bird cage. Tyler smiles up at him, satisfied yet innocent, as if he isn’t aware of the wars he’s just caused inside Tate’s clouded cranium. 

 

He  _ must _ be a demon. 

 

***

 

As per the request of Addie, Tate descends the stairs with dread in each footsteps. 

 

It isn’t often that Tate is pulled out of his bedroom. He comes home, doesn’t say much, and he hides in his room until dinner. Sometimes, he’ll let Addie and Beau come in to play card games with, but usually Beau ends up getting upset and quitting soon after. Tate is a recluse, a stranger in his own home. So when Addie knocked on her brother’s door to tell him that mom was asking for him, he knew he must be in trouble. Every step felt like a lamb getting closer to slaughter. 

 

“No idea what kind of hellian calls at this ungodly hour,” Constance holds the phone out to Tate, her southern accent only drawing out the annoyance in her tone. “Much less to talk to a heathen like you.”

 

“Maybe he has a girlfriend,” Addie suggests, that innocent child hope bringing out her naivety.

 

“Please, no respectable woman would stoop that low,” Constance shakes the phone in Tate’s direction, so the silent boy grabs it by the handle, his fingers wanting to retract everywhere that they overlap hers. “Especially after the last one, I know damn well he’s not getting a second shot to redeem his cruelty. That was  _ your  _ fault, Tate.”

 

Tate yanks the phone from her grip, turning in the kitchen so that his back faces her. He’s repulsed by her words, but mostly towards himself. He  _ knows  _ it was his fault, she doesn’t need to remind him. He feels bad enough as it is. 

 

“The boy’s got a face of an angel, but Jesus H. Christ, he is nothing but a devil.” 

 

Tate sighs, pressing the receiver to his ear. He doesn’t get calls, but maybe it’s his doctor calling in to change appointments… Maybe it’s Her. It’s unlikely, but a flutter of hope still flickers in his chest. 

 

However, the person on the other end is the real devil, Constance was wrong about her accusations. 

 

“Hello?” Tate speaks, listening to the phone rather than his mother’s continuous taunts in the background. 

 

“Hey, I just saw that you called earlier. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since our last coffee date,” Tyler’s voice comes in clear through the receiver, close to Tate’s ear, a whisper along his neck. 

 

It’s true, they haven’t met up in over a month. Tate’s gotten worse, the added attention of someone way too good for him has only sent him backwards in his therapy. He feels guilty for having these strange thoughts about Tyler, mostly because his brain is still in the process of trying to get over the girl he hurt before. He doesn’t want to hurt another one, he just wants the one he loved before. She was all he ever needed, Tate doesn’t want to get that attached to someone else. Tate attempted to call Tyler to inform him of that exactly; he had it all scripted out in his mind.

 

But it’s hard when that playful voice calls their little hangouts “dates.” He didn’t realize they were dates, but now with the confirmation from the tiny devil haunting his dreams, he feels every single one of those thoughts about his ex girlfriend and past mistakes just fly through the window as if they were nothing but dust that settled over the winter. It’s springtime now, Tyler is bringing the flowers to bloom where She left the ice to freeze. 

 

“I’ve been around,” Tate says, realizing just how much he missed this boy. “Sorry if I called you at a bad time earlier. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

 

There’s a pause on the other end, a moment of silence that gives Tate’s mind the ability to explore an infinite amount of reactions the other one may be having. 

 

“As sweet as that is, Tate, I can’t help but wonder how you got my number in the first place,” It’s not accusatory, just merely curious. He has a right to, mostly because he explicitly held off on giving Tate his phone number until he knew the blonde boy would be worth the inevitable heartbreak that comes whenever Tyler falls in love. 

 

“I  _ may _ or may not have looked through your files at my last session. You know, Doctor Romello should really keep a better lock on his filing cabinet,” Tate leans against the wall, smiling into the phone. He’s not sure what it is that has this effect on him, but he’ll pretend like it’s demon powers rather than face the truth. 

 

“Now, that’s illegal, Tate Langdon. That’s breaking all kinds of patient confidentiality laws,” Tyler says, although the smirk in his voice is evident. He has this way of talking, it’s all so monotone. Despite the bored, uninterested tone, Tate can always tell whenever he’s smiling, just from the inflection of each word. 

 

“And how do you know my last name?” Tate asks back, his grin widening. 

 

“Oh, because I broke the law too,” Tyler states as if it’s common knowledge. “Guess we’re both criminals.”

 

Tate smiles, utterly obsessed with the way this boy’s mind works. So similar to his, yet… controlled. Tyler’s got a better grip on himself than Tate ever has. 

 

“I guess I wouldn’t mind running from law enforcement if it meant you were my partner in crime,” Tate remarks, his words full of affection. 

 

“We could go on heists!” Tyler laughs, so bubbly, even over the phone. 

 

“I could act heroic and jump in front of a bullet for you,” Tate continues, although the bit has grown old, and Tyler is a fidgety one. Always jumping from one thing to the next. 

 

“So when am I going to get to see you again?” He asks without a falter. 

 

Tate looks back to see where his mother is, only to find that she’s left him alone in the kitchen with Addie. He watches her sit at the table and arrange the silverware from shiniest to most used. She’s so interested in her little bundles, but she gets like that. Hyperfixated on whatever takes her attention next. It’s the Langdon curse, they’ve all got the obsessive gene. 

 

Tate turns his attention back to his newest fixation, imagining bundles of silver in the pale green of Tyler’s eyes. 

 

“I can sneak out tonight,” Tate promises. It still doesn’t feel soon enough. “We could meet up somewhere, I don’t know.”

 

“And do what? Our cafe is closed,” Tyler doesn’t sound opposed, he’s just cautious of going somewhere alone with a boy who has a longer medical file than he does. 

 

“ _ Our  _ cafe?” Tate repeats, closing his eyes. He imagines all the possible things to transpire tonight, and how all of them fill him with a tingling sensation that resembles something close to how it feels to be alive. “We can meet at Cherry Park?”

 

“The one with the cherries?” Tyler asks. Nervous about commitments, always has been. Anxious about plans, always will be. 

 

“Yeah, Cherry Park is the one with the cherries,” Tate chuckles in amusement. “Is that okay? We can go somewhere else if you’d like-“

 

“No, no, that’s fine!” Tyler cuts him off so quickly that Tate can practically imagine the way that he throws his little hands up in the air each time he gets overwhelmed by something sudden. “I’ll be there. I’ll bring a sleeping bag so that we can take turns when we’re on the run from the law.”

 

“How considerate of you,” Tate starts to wonder if those moths aren’t moths at all, but perhaps the possibility of butterflies. “I’ll bring canned food.”

 

“Pull your weight, Langdon,” Tyler scoffs, then hangs up. 

 

Tate stands there for a few minutes more, listening to the dead line on the other side. The monotonous humming is a song that’s fallen flat, but Tate’s racing heartbeat makes up for all the kickdrums needed to find a rhythm. 

 

The soundtrack of falling in love. 

 

_ [...] _

 

“Do you believe in redemption?” 

 

Tate looks up from his book, his eyes meeting Tyler’s curious gaze. The two are sitting in a cemetery, a blanket laid out beneath them. Tate brought food, but he’s noticed that Tyler hasn’t touched any of it. Instead, the warm May sun captures the two boys in a tizzy of heat. Tyler had shrugged off his jacket a few moments after meeting Tate at the entryway, showing his sickly thin arms that have clusters of homemade tattoos. 

 

“What do you mean?” Tate asks. It’s one of their more silent days, they have them every once in awhile. Not that it’s awkward, no, the two just bring books to read and they sit with one another in a world where they don’t need to talk to fill the space. Every once in awhile, Tyler will reach over and let his fingers bump against Tate’s knee, just to make sure the other one is still there. Tate wouldn’t leave even if zombies were to rise from the graves around them.

 

“Like…” Tyler lies down, pulling on Tate’s sleeve to do the same. 

 

Their shoulders touch, and Tyler’s elbow overlaps Tate’s bicep as he folds his hands over his chest. The sky above them is clearer than it usually is whenever they hang out; Tyler has stopped waiting until it’s going to rain to see him, and now wants to see him any chance that the two can get their schedules to overlap. The white clouds above them float languidly through the sky, rings of yellow halos mixing with the watercolor blue up above. 

 

“I don’t know. I’m so afraid that I’m going to be like this for the rest of my life. I feel like I won’t ever get better, and I’m forever destined to not care about anyone or anything, yet I still try so hard to make myself fall in love. What for? Why not save someone the heartbreak when I inevitably get bored of them?” Tyler whispers. “I just want redemption. I want something that will bring me back from all the pain I’ve caused, something to make me feel like life is redeeming itself.”

 

Tate’s ears perk up at each word, surprised he’s getting to hear them in the first place. Tyler is very closed off, a compartmentalist at heart. He places everything in neat little boxes in his mind, and nothing from those boxes ever interact with one another. Tate is in a box away from family and other friends, but he’s been trying to get into the massive vault that’s more guarded than any other box. Yet here Tyler is, slowly opening the door to that vault, allowing him to glance inside at what’s on the surface. 

 

“Is that what we’re doing?” Tate asks. The insecurity in his voice comes out more than he wants it to, but there’s no use hiding it. “Will you get bored of me?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tyler shrugs, his shoulder moving against Tate’s as he does so. “I want to say yes because I get bored of everyone. But I don’t know. Things feel different with you, it’s kinda weird. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

 

Tate pauses for a moment, thinking of how his last relationship was built on nothing but the desperation to be in love. He thought he needed that girlfriend to survive, and in turn, put way too much pressure on Her. He was nothing but a sniffling burden, coming to Her to cry about all his bad thoughts when it was never Her responsibility to take care of him in the first place. He knows he put too much weight on Her shoulders, and that’s what caused their inevitable downfall. A blurry six months of pure heartbreak and death cravings. Tate’s starting to surface above the water he was drowning in, though. He can see it a bit better now, realizes he forced Her into so many situations She wasn’t equipped to deal with simply because he was having a mental breakdown and demanded comfort. That’s not Her job, he shouldn’t have made Her do that. 

 

But Tyler is a flotation device in that big blue ocean, a rope thrown down to Tate to pull him out of the violent current. Tate thinks differently towards Tyler, he doesn’t vent and rant about all his depressed thoughts in order to receive some kind of validation back, because just  _ being  _ around Tyler is the illusion of comfort and safety that Tate was so desperately trying to find within Her. 

 

“I know what you mean,” Tate says honestly. He slides over a little so their shoulders are pressed against one another even more, desperate for that physical contact he’s been lacking. “I, uh, I hurt… I hurt my last girlfriend. My only girlfriend, really.”

 

Tyler turns his head to look at the side of Tate’s face, the golden sun casting glows along the edges of Tate’s features. Headstones blur together in the background, the only thing focusing being Tate. 

 

“What happened?” Tyler asks. After a moment, he quickly says “You don’t have to tell me.”

 

“No, it’s fine. I should talk about it, right? Doctor Romello is always telling me that I can’t begin to heal if I won’t tell anybody about the wound,” Tate laughs airily, a slight chuckle to mask the severity of what he’s trying to discuss. “I guess it’s my fault. I won’t lie to you, it’s definitely my fault. I made her babysit me, threatened suicide way too much. I didn’t  _ mean  _ to, I just… I was hurting, and I had never had a girlfriend before. I was madly in love with her, but looking back now I think it was just obsession, yknow, the first girl to pay attention to me and to  _ keep  _ paying attention to me even after she found out how crazy I am. Again, I didn’t really  _ mean  _ to manipulate her the way I did… I was just scared, y’know? I’ve got all this shit in my mind telling me I need to die and stuff, and she was the only person who ever made me feel like I didn’t have to listen to those voices. Anytime I was upset, I was desperate for her to make it better.”

 

Tate stops, his breathing faltering a little as his palms prickle up with trepidation. He regrets bringing this all up, especially in the middle of the day out in public. He’s exposed, entirely vulnerable. He’s been bottling things up for months, only telling his therapist enough to satiate the man’s nosy questions. 

 

“It’s okay,” Tyler says quietly, rolling over on his side to face Tate. Tyler’s hand comes up to rest against Tate’s shoulder, his delicate fingertips slowly treading across the fabric of Tate’s shirt. “Keep going.”

 

Tate glances at the boy out of the corner of his eye and sees that Tyler is being genuine. He’s not bored or annoyed, nor is he amused or laughing. He’s listening,  _ really _ listening. Tate can’t remember the last time he spoke to someone who wasn’t just waiting for their turn to talk. 

 

“There’s not much else to it. She broke up with me because I made her feel like shit, y’know. Granted, she was right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less,” his voice is quieter now, feeling a bit of the cold winter sneaking back in through his fingertips. No matter how hard he tries, he will never get over it. He should just give up. He should just-

 

“Have you ever considered that maybe you didn’t do that much wrong? Maybe she just wasn’t strong enough or didn’t know how to take care of you,” Tyler stops the train of self deprecating thoughts that was starting up in Tate’s mind. These words come as a shock to him, and he turns to fully look at Tyler headon. “I don’t think you’re a burden, Tate. I don’t think she did either, I just don’t think she understood you. Sometimes, people just don’t fit together the way that they want to. Maybe she was scared because she knew she couldn’t ever understand what was happening in your tangled up brain.”

 

The words make sense, yet they never once crossed Tate’s mind in the months that he’s been moping around about this breakup. She told him he made her feel like shit, and he believed it. He never once thought that maybe she felt like shit because she felt she wasn’t good enough to take care of him. 

 

“I don’t know, man. Obviously I didn’t know her, so I can’t speak on her behalf, but… I know you, Tate. Not very well, but I know you enough to understand that you have good intentions in everything that you do. You just wanted to feel better, didn’t you? She didn’t get that, maybe she felt too overwhelmed and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t helping enough. Like… maybe she felt like whatever she did was never good enough to help you, and didn’t like that you would always be sad despite being in love with her,” Tyler says, his hand hovering between the two of them after Tate rolled onto his side. “Maybe she just didn’t understand you.” 

 

Tate blinks, his brain processing all these words and what their possible meanings are. Months of self hatred is being undone right now, all because Tyler presented a possibility that he would have never assumed had he not been told it from someone else. 

 

Tyler smiles a little, a friendly one, and brings his hand up to rest against the side of Tate’s cheek. His hand feels cold against Tate’s eternally warm skin, and he slowly brushes some blonde hair out of Tate’s confused face. His thumb circles along Tate’s cheekbone, the boy admiring the way that his friend’s pale skin warms with color. 

 

“Do you understand me?” Tate asks, bringing his own hand up to cover Tyler’s, trapping the boy’s touch against his face. He doesn’t want Tyler to pull away, even though that’s a bit of a scary question. His fingers overlap Tyler’s, little shocks of electricity sparking between their mingling skin. 

 

“I think so,” Tyler responds. He blinks those wintergreen eyes up at Tate, eager to see him. “I want to try. I think we’re a lot alike, but I still want to know what those differences between us are, if you’ll let me.”

 

“Yes,” Tate says quickly, a little too fast. He blushes and looks away, his hand tightening around Tyler’s. Tyler doesn’t seem bothered however, he remains stroking Tate’s cheek as if he’s not even fazed. “I mean, uh… yeah, that’s okay. You can try.” 

 

“I will,” Tyler smiles, his eyes sparkling with desire. He slips his hand out from underneath Tate’s, but not to pull away. He drags his hand down Tate’s cheekbone, his hand coming down to cup Tate’s jaw. He traces his thumb up over Tate’s chin, the soft pad of skin ghosting along the edges of Tate’s bottom lip. “What was her name?” 

 

The questions throws Tate off guard, but he is just drunk enough on the physical affection he’s receiving that he doesn’t have the time to spin out into a whirlwind of panic upon speaking Her name. 

 

“Violet.” The word comes out easy, teeth grazing his bottom lip, sounding Her name out, tongue touching the back of his teeth as he finishes. It used to send euphoria through his veins from just hearing Her name, but now he doesn’t feel anything. She doesn’t hold as much power now, Tyler’s thumb on his lip erased that strength from her name the second it left his mouth. “She was the only girl I’ve ever loved.” 

 

Tyler pulls away, Tate instantly aching with emptiness. Tate reaches out, entwining his fingers with Tyler’s and setting it down on the blanket between them. Tyler’s hands are gorgeous, and Tate’s fingers squeeze around each ring that the smaller one has on his petite hand. It’s intimate and romantic, their hands bursting with energy as if a supernova collapsed between their palms. They’ve created an entire galaxy with their hands, a plausible action that’s only been heightened by their nervous teenage awkwardness. 

 

Tyler closes his eyes, basking in the warm sun bath. He looks so pretty like this, so at peace. He brings their hands closer to his chest, holding onto Tate’s arm with his free hand. 

 

“I think it’s time you fell in love with a boy instead,” Tyler opens his eyes, giving Tate a fond, follow-me-into-hell type of look. “This is your redemption arc, Tate Langdon.”

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate can still hear her words ringing in his ears. 

 

Tonight was bad, leaving Tate with an insatiable rage boiling in his chest. His hands shake with fury, his mind spinning with thoughts of destruction. Either for himself, or for the entire goddamn house around him. 

 

_ “Now what the hell is wrong with you? Why can’t you just make something of yourself, and be a good son?” Constance had raised her voice as she was cooking dinner, Tate standing near the garbage can as he was preparing to take out the trash. “God wasted all these damn gifts on you, and you don’t even have the good grace to contribute back towards society.” _

 

_ “I never asked to be born,” Tate had responded, each word increasing in volume as his emotions quickly got the best of him. “I don’t want to be your perfect fucking son!” _

 

_ “Clearly,” Constance responded, turning around and pointing a wooden spoon towards him. “I know what you’ve been getting up to, you filthy heathen. The girls down at the salon all tell me about that little fruity boy you’ve been running around with. God did not intend for man to lie with man, and I will not let my own blood turn to the ways of… those people.” _

 

It was the way she had said ‘those people’, as if they’re subhuman. He hates his mother’s prejudice, he always has. The only reason he hasn’t been caught in the crossfire of her judgement for the first 17 years of his life was that he had the immunity of being her own son, but it seems that free ride is over now that the old birds are gossiping about Tate’s romantic orientation. It isn’t their business, they don’t understand how good Tyler makes him feel. They aren’t dating, they aren’t. But that doesn’t matter, he would still defend Tyler as if they were. 

 

_ “He has shown me more love in the past three  months than you have in my entire life,” Tate said in a low, threatening voice. He dropped the garbage bag on the ground, trash spilling all across the kitchen tiles that she works so hard to keep spotless. She hates the mess, yet Tate will never understand why the old maid stopped coming around. “You don’t know a thing about me, and no matter how much you want a perfect reputation, you have ruined this family by being a cold-hearted cocksucker.” _

 

_ Constance smacked the wooden spoon down on the table, scaring Adelaide, who had remained silent all throughout this argument. Tate instantly bristled at the sight, ready to protect his sister against anything their torturous mother may inflict on them in retaliation. Tate keeps taking the mirrors out of the linen closet, yet he’ll come home from therapy to the sounds of Addie’s screams trapped inside the tiny punishment room. He tries, but Constance works harder than he does.  _

 

_ “I will  _ not _ take this from you,” she said in her most vindictive voice, pointing a manicured nail towards Tate. “If you want to go off and be swept away by that queer of yours, you go right ahead. Just know that if you leave, Tate, I will not let you back in. A queer is no son of mine. If only your father could see you now…” _

 

_ Tate had taken a step backwards. No matter how much they fought, Constance never threatened to kick him out. She was too controlling, needed to have a hold over Tate and everything he does. She needed the good image of having a happy family to brag about to her girls down at the supermarket and salon. Being exiled has a finality to it that Tate didn’t think he would ever live to see, her lack of sympathy only putting the last nail in the coffin of their relationship.  _

 

Now, here he stands, pacing in his room with whitened knuckles from the tightness of his clenched fists. He feels the desire to burn down everything in this house, to trap her inside and watch the flames swallow her and this hellhole up into the ground. He wants hell to open up and suck this entire planet up into the depths of its darkest torture.  

 

Instead, a single thought keeps him sane, and he craves to expand on that thought and bring some clarity back to his senses. His hands shake as he picks up the phone, dialing the number he knows by heart at this point. 

 

With each ring, Tate’s heart sinks further and further. He can’t stand the distance between them right now, but maybe it’s the proximity of his mother being just down the hall that’s driving him insane. All he knows is that he needs to get  _ out.  _ He can’t breathe in this goddamn house, he feels like it’s possessing him more and more with each day. There’s only one person who can take that all away, and with the world closing in around Tate, his desperation only increases with each passing second that ticks by on the grandfather clock in his room. 

 

“Hello?” Tyler’s voice answers through the phone, a hazy indicator that he was asleep. 

 

Tate’s heart relaxes, but not by much. The anger begins to subside, only for a great sadness to take its place. That’s how it always is, isn’t it? He has a temper, but it’s just a poorly masked disguise for his sad vulnerability. He hides his depression with fury, and Tyler’s the only person to see through the facade even when he isn’t trying to. 

 

“I need to see you,” Tate says through clenched teeth, his breathing becoming erratic as he feels his eyes growing wet with tears. Embarrassed, he pressed the back of his sweater sleeve across his face, trying to take deep breaths in so that Tyler can’t hear how pathetic he is. 

 

“Hey, is everything okay? What’s going on?” Tyler sounds more awake now, and Tate can hear some rustling of bedsheets on the other end. “Tate, come on, talk to me.”

 

“No!” He bursts out, his mind overstimulated with the flurry of frantic emotions overloading his system right now. He can feel his body on the verge of collapse, this damn house sucking out all of his strength. “I need to see you. Please. I can’t be here anymore.”

 

“Okay,” Tyler says quietly. He doesn’t ask any further questions, he just silently understands. His voice is gentle, saying very calmly “Come over. I’ll let you in, just come over. Be careful, Tate.”

 

When Tate hangs up, he can’t pack his bag fast enough. He only grabs two changes of clothes, stuffing essentials into the bag on top of them. He throws it over his shoulder, opening the window, and staring down at the two story drop below him. 

 

As if he needed the motivation, Tate can hear the familiar sounds of his mother’s favorite Billie Holiday record coming from all corners of the house. She has this way of taking up all the space around her, smothering her children in reminders of her. She makes it so that she is all they see, all they need. 

 

Tate takes the jump, stumbling on the ground and smearing mud against his shoulder and knees as he tumbles to a halt. His bones ache with the impact, the air being knocked out of his lungs. He sits up, shakily picking the gravel rocks out from where they’re embedded into his skin. The air around him is cold, as they’ve not quite reached summer yet. The spring still has remnants of winter hanging around, and Tate feels that cold spreading within him faster than a wildfire ever could. 

 

It doesn’t take him long to recover, the natural desire to get to Tyler taking over his body like it’s a survival instinct to seek out his friend under any circumstance. Tate stands to his feet, straightening his bag out on his back, and looks back up at the window he just jumped through. He’s not sure if Constance was serious about not letting him back in, but if she was being honest…

 

He shakes his head. He doesn’t care. He can’t be there anymore, whether she wants him or not. He needs to get to Tyler, that’s the only thing his mind will allow him to think. He’s running on a constant mantra of  _ get to Tyler, get to Tyler, get to Tyler _ .

 

Tyler lives a mile and a half away, but Tate makes it there in under ten minutes. The familiar house comes into sight, and he crosses the street haphazardly to reach his destination. His heart is starting to come to a slow at just the sight of the property, knowing that the promise of safety is only a doorbell ring away. 

 

Tyler’s sitting on the porch when Tate approaches the driveway, the two meeting eyes at the same time. Tyler’s wearing a vintage sweater and boxers, his legs huddled together as the cold eats away at the exposed skin. His phone is clenched in his hands as if he was waiting for Tate to call with an even bigger emergency, but he physically sighs in relief at the sight of Tate walking up the driveway. 

 

Tyler stands to his feet, his eyes swelling in the moonlight as he sees the state that Tate is in. As if he’s broken out of his trance, he starts jogging down the long driveway, meeting Tate halfway there as the taller one’s steps become faster the closer Tyler gets. Tyler swings his arms around Tate’s shoulders, burrowing his face into the side of Tate’s neck. 

 

Tate rests his hands on Tyler’s back, feeling the protruding shoulder blades through the fabric of the sweatshirt adorning the boy’s tiny body. He melts into the hug, leaning down to rest his chin over Tyler’s shoulder. Things start to make sense again, some of those arson ideas leaving his mind. He doesn’t want the world to burn as long as Tyler is on it, and he would sooner personally go to hell than let Tyler be taken anywhere except for heaven. 

 

Tate doesn’t realize that Tyler’s talking until he can feel the boy’s lips moving against his neck, so he listens quietly in the still of the night to try and pick up on what is being whispered against his skin. 

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here, I’m with you, it’s all going to be okay. Everything will be alright.” 

 

And just for that night, Tate believes him. 

 

_ [***] _

 

June 16th, 4:37 pm. 

 

Tate’s going to remember this date for quite possibly forever, because it’s the exact moment that his life begins to realign and make sense again. 

 

He’s sitting in the chair of the lobby, his session having just ended. However, on his way out, he saw Tyler waiting to have his name called and promised to sit and wait for the little one so they could hang out afterwards. 

 

He watches the clock impatiently, bored of all the magazines and not hungry for the candy sitting on the receptionist’s desk. The clock ticks past 4:30, and the door to the hall finally swings open. 

 

Tate’s attention hyperfixates on Tyler stepping out, listening to and nodding along with whatever it is that their shared doctor is saying to him. There’s the familiar sheet of a prescription clenched between his tiny hands, and Tate’s heart sinks at the sight of that. 

 

“Okay, yeah, I will. Thank you,” Tyler’s voice carries through the waiting room. Tate listens closely, trying to connect any dots on their conversation. 

 

As if on cue, their therapist looks up at Tate in the waiting room, letting out a troubled sigh as he retreats into the hallway. The next patient is called, and Tyler quickly steps out of the way so that he can head over to Tate. 

 

“What was all that about?” Tate asks, standing up as Tyler shoves the prescription into his messenger bag, the strap pressing down right in the center of his chest. When he finishes and looks up at Tate, the tall one simply picks Tyler’s hands up between his own, rubbing his thumbs over the knuckles of Tyler’s small hands. 

 

“Oh, nothing,” Tyler shakes his head. “Scheduling.”

 

A blatant lie, but Tate won’t push it. Instead, he nods his head towards Tyler’s bag and asks “What’s he putting you on?”

 

“Same medication, stronger dose,” Tyler remarks, pulling his hands away so that he can wave Tate’s concern off. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

 

Tate doesn’t object, just hurries ahead so that he can hold the door open for Tyler. The shorter boy passes through nervously, his eyes glancing up at Tate as he forces a smile that doesn’t quite convince anybody. Tyler’s head ducks down as they walk, his attention fixed on the cracked sidewalk instead of the nature above that usually holds his attention. Something is off, Tate can tell by the way the boy is nervously removing and switching his rings around on each finger. 

 

“Is everything okay?” Tate asks, stopping underneath an oak tree. 

 

Tyler’s eyes widen, his expression shooting up in alarm as Tate astutely pinpoints a problem bothering his friend. Tate can pretty accurately figure out if something’s upsetting Tyler, no matter how hard the raven-haired boy tries to ignore it. 

 

“Um, yeah, I’m alright,” Tyler shakes his head, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. 

 

“You’re lying,” Tate reaches out to take Tyler’s hand in his, but the other one just pulls back and turns slightly away from Tate, his eyes facing the ground in guilt. 

 

Tate’s body grows cold, his heart feeling thick and heavy with dread. Is this it? Is this when everything crumbles? Is he about to lose the one person that makes him feel sane?

 

“Doc said I should be honest with you about how I feel, or whatever,” Tyler mumbles, still avoiding Tate’s eyes. He steps on the acorns littering the pavement, a distraction to hide his nerves. Tate knows better though, he’s spent nearly everyday with this kid for the past five months. 

 

“What are you saying?” Tate’s voice begins to shake, his converse taking a step towards Tyler’s combat boots. These platforms make him a little taller, giving Tate a clearer view of Tyler’s guilty expression. He’s having flashbacks of Violet, finding himself stuck in the same loop of hurried emotions, high screams rising up in his mind. “Are you- Do you… Do you want me to go away?”

 

Tyler’s eyes lift up once more, finally meeting Tate’s scared face. His cheeks flush pink, spotted beams of sun creating halos on his face where the leaves break apart above them. “What? No. No, no, no. I like you.” 

 

“Then what is it?” Tate brushes Tyler’s heavy bangs out of his eyes, his palm pressing against the side of the male’s cheek as he attempts to keep holding on for as long as possible. The dread burns a hole through his chest like a pack of cigarettes burning acid, but he tries to stay strong. 

 

“No, Tate, listen to me,” Tyler lifts his hands up and wraps his fingers around Tate’s wrist, feeling the boy’s pulse through his translucent skin. “I like you.”

 

“I like you too, Ty. Would you  _ please  _ tell me what’s bothering you?” Tate strokes his cheek, that flushed peach skin appealing to Tate. “Please. I want to help.” 

 

“Tate,” Tyler breathes out. He looks at the boy, brushing his thumb against Tate’s scarred wrist the same way that Tate is doing to his cheek. “Listen to me. I  _ like  _ you.”

 

Tate opens his mouth to object, but then the words seem to finally connect in his brain and a chemical compound of serotonin and dopamine floods his entire system. He’s overfilled with euphoria, complete dizziness making his legs grow weak. 

 

“Oh,” he breathes out, the world spinning with stars. Things all seem blurry, but Tyler doesn’t. Tyler is the clearest thing that Tate has ever laid eyes on. Tate catches a glimpse of Tyler’s watch, reading the hands pointing towards 4:37. 

 

“Is that…” Tyler trails off, some of his confidence wavering. His eyes flash with a bit of insecurity, the two somehow managing to manifest more insecurity between the two of them than a high school girls locker room. “Is that okay?”

 

“Is that-“ Tate begins to repeat incredulously, a scoff finishing off his sentence. He rolls his eyes, laughing a little as he shakes his head. Before Tyler can even ask anything else, Tate leans down and pulls Tyler in closer by a hand on the boy’s neck. 

 

Their lips collide clumsily, an awkward mess of teenage limbs and frantic touches. Tate’s nose bumps against Tyler’s glasses, so his hands come up to lift the frames off of Tyler’s face, only he accidentally grabs at Tyler’s ear and makes the boy laugh. 

 

“Oh god,” Tyler mumbles against Tate’s mouth, his smile causing his teeth to graze against Tate’s bottom lip. “This is awful.”

 

“I can stop,” Tate says quietly, a whisper trapped between their frantic mouths. 

 

Tyler stands on his tiptoes, running his hands through Tate’s hair in pure affection. “Don’t you dare.” 

 

Tate deepens the kiss, finding a smooth rhythm that the two boys can comfortably sync up to. Their groove is one that they’ve written themselves, a kissing style that nobody else in the world can replicate. Tate feels as if there must be some crushed up medications coating Tyler’s taste buds, it’s the only way to explain the sheer relief he feels. All chemical imbalances are evening out, finally a stable mind taking over Tate’s head. Things feel right. Tyler promised things would be okay, and he is following through this very second. 

 

Tyler pulls away, his flustered gaze meeting Tate’s as his hands fall down to rub the boy’s shoulders. Then, all at once, he breaks into this shy smile that Tate has never seen before. It takes him by surprise almost, he instantly starts to memorize how the boy looks in case he never sees this smile again. He’s known Tyler for five, nearly six, months, and he has never seen his eyes twinkle like this. 

 

“You look-“ Tate stops, mainly because there’s no word to really simulate what he’s trying to say. Instead, he just smiles back at Tyler, those dimples caving in as he leans back down for a second kiss. 

 

This one is more simple, a bit more chaste and innocent. He pulls away from the sweet intimacy, resting his forehead against Tyler’s as he breathes in the pollen of the springtime air. 

 

“So do you like me too?” Tyler asks, a chuckle punctuating the end of his sentence. He holds Tate by the front of his flannel, tugging the boy a bit closer. 

 

“Hmm,” Tate pretends to ponder the question. When Tyler throws a playful punch at his chest, Tate grabs the boy by the wrist and brings Tyler’s hand up to his mouth. He kisses the back of Tyler’s hand gently, then moves on to pay attention to each individual knuckle with the same amount of affection. “Yeah. I think I’ve liked you for awhile.”

 

“Even though we’re both boys?” Tyler asks. 

 

“ _ Especially  _ because we’re both boys,” Tate laughs. “Did you know I collect gay porn? That shoulda been a clear sign that I am not heterosexual.” 

 

Tyler smiles, pulling his hand away so that he can shield his mouth. Instead, he tugs on Tate’s flannel and brings the boy forward, wrapping his arms around Tate’s lean center. Tyler nuzzles his head into Tate’s chest, little currents buzzing all throughout their entwining skin molecules. 

 

He feels like they were made from the same matter, as if the stardust that fell to earth to create life was split in two and separated from one another. Tyler is his other half, his wishing star. He’s finally coming on home to Tate, who has spent years feeling incomplete, feeling wrong, feeling like he was manufactured incorrectly. 

 

Tyler makes sense of all of it. Everything was wrong until Tyler made it right, and Tate is starting to find a place in this world. 

 

“Come on,” Tate rubs the back of Tyler’s back. “Let’s go on a real date.” 

 

They end up down at the beach, the five PM sun painting the skies a golden peach. Tate stares up at all the colors mixing together like a paint palette, blending together into something much larger than he will ever become. The crashing waves sink against the sandy shores, and Tyler keeps a grip on Tate’s hand as if he’s worried high tide will rip them apart to be lost at sea. 

 

“I used to come down here a lot when I was in high school,” Tate says dreamily, recalling the nostalgia of shouting all his frustrations out into the open world. The ocean always listened whenever the people around him would not. “I’d come down here just to get away from it all.”

 

“Yeah?” Tyler’s fingers brush against Tate’s arm, the boy getting goosebumps under such gentle touch. “Did you make it out okay?”

 

“I mean,” Tate shrugs. “Not really. I dropped out because I couldn’t do it anymore. The people, the societal pressure, the fucking grading system… I don’t need some underpaid teacher to define my worth by which letter of the alphabet I got on a research paper. My mom was really pissed about it, but she got over it. She’s  _ always  _ really pissed about something, but she always gets over it.” 

 

“I know what you mean,” Tyler responds. “I graduated when I was 16.”

 

“Oh,” Tate responds, a frown on his face. “You probably think I’m stupid then, huh?”

 

“Not at all,” Tyler shakes his head in disbelief. He looks up at Tate, the pinks and red tones of the sky above reflecting on his honey toned skin. “I tested out because I fucking hated it there. High school jackasses become even  _ bigger  _ jackasses when sexuality is brought into the equation.”

 

“You don’t deserve that,” Tate grows irritated very quickly, his fist clenching by his side as he imagines Tyler being subjected to the bullying he saw throughout his high school experience.

 

“It’s fine,” Tyler shrugs, a strong survivor of the torment. Tate admires that bravery, but the next words knock his planet off its axis and send it into a tizzy of lovesick nausea. “Besides, I have you to protect me now, don’t I?”

 

“Always,” Tate smiles, stroking Tyler’s hand with his thumb. “I’ll always be here, if that’s what you want.” 

 

A silence falls around them, Tyler smiling out at the shore as if he’s found peace in the environment around him. Things aren’t really different between the two of them now, maybe just a more heightened sense of emotions, but their friendship itself still remains the same. This gives Tate the hope he never felt in his last relationship, because maybe things will really work out with this one. He’s learned from Violet, she was just the trial run. Tate’s ready for the real deal now, and he thinks Tyler really is that redemption arc that he was talking about many weeks ago. 

 

“We should find rocks that match each other’s eyes,” Tyler suggests, looking up at Tate for approval. 

 

“Rocks?” Tate repeats, frowning a little. He doesn’t oppose the idea, he’s just trying to figure out the angle that Tyler is coming from. 

 

“Yeah,” Tyler nods, instantly dropping Tate’s hand so that he can bend down and start examining the ground. “That way if we’re far apart, we can have something that reminds us of that little warm feeling I get when I look into your eyes.” 

 

Tate’s stomach fills with acrobats doing fancy pirouettes and ballerina flips. He is amazed by the power this little one holds, some of those mystical powers being cast over Tate like an ethereal spell. 

 

As Tyler searches, Tate watches him. The boy is so concentrated, not even aware of how hard Tate is falling for him in that moment. 

 

_ He’s no demon at all, _ Tate thinks.  _ He is nothing but an angel _ .

 

Tyler has better luck finding rocks similar to Tate’s eyes than vice versa, which is made apparent each time that Tyler holds a rock up to the side of Tate’s face, trying to see if they match. 

 

“I don’t think it’ll be hard for you to find one,” Tate scoffs, keeping his eyes trained on Tyler as the little one holds a pebble up against the light to closely examine it. “My eyes are just black.”

 

“No they’re not,” Tyler mumbles, returning to the ground. Tate kicks over a blue-grey rock with the toe of his shoe, dissastisfied with the lack of green minerals. Tyler says in a distracted tone, “They look dark at first glance, but they’re not. When you look into direct sunlight, they’re this… brownish red color. Like rusty cars or copper pennies. Not quite the color of brass, but… if bourbon were to be drowning in coffee, maybe.” 

 

Tate blinks in surprise, staring at Tyler’s hunched figure picking up two rocks from the sand and cleaning them off with the bottom of his shirt. “Really?”

 

Tyler looks over his shoulder, a shy smile forming on his lips. “Yeah. I think they’re pretty.”

 

Tate focuses twice as hard after that, having found the motivation to find something that matches the exact steel mint color that Tate sees every time Tyler glances over. Tyler’s really cute when he’s trying to focus, but he’s even cuter when Tate asks to see his eyes. He always lifts his glasses up, then bats those long eyelashes up at Tate with this twitching mouth that says he’s trying his best not to smile. 

 

“You look like a lil bunny when you do that,” Tate laughs softly, dropping down a defective rock that has too much grey in it for it to match. 

 

“Oh, yeah?” Tyler responds, taking little jabs at Tate’s side. “Bunnies are cute. I like bunnies.” 

 

“I like birds,” Tate says, shrugging a little. “They can fly away when things get too crazy.” 

 

“My dove,” Tyler hums, brushing some sand off of a larger rock. “You know doves are considered, like, the symbols for love or something?”

 

“Where’d you learn that?” Tate laughs. 

 

“Isn’t that why they’re released at weddings and stuff?” Tyler wonders aloud, sitting up from where he’s bent over in the sand. 

 

“Sometimes,” Tate shrugs, “They’re released at funerals, too. It’s supposed to symbolize the soul’s last departure into peace and hope.” 

 

“Funeral or wedding, you’re still my peace and hope,” Tyler replies, looking up at Tate. The setting sun is dropping down behind his head, creating a halo of a golden aura around Tyler’s darkened silhouette. He smiles, squinting his right eye a little against the light bouncing off of Tate’s pale complexion. “My dove.” 

 

Tate huffs, looking away in embarrassment. He feels overstimulated, as if Tyler is trying to fit all of their love into this one date. 

 

He looks down, seeing the perfect shade of pale green, his chest blooming with flowers and honey bees at the sight of it. This must be it, that feeling Tyler was talking about. Tate picks the rock up, then turning to Tyler. 

 

“TJ,” Tate gets his attention, brushing some hair out of the boy’s face to really get the perfect view of those heaven sent eyes. 

 

The hue is a perfect match, the small oval shaped pebble resembling Tyler’s viridescent olive eyes. Tyler’s thick eyelashes flutter nervously, but he doesn’t look away from Tate at all. That sense of stimulation washes over once again, and Tyler can imagine the two of them being pulled under high tide and simply being okay with it. 

 

Tate leans down and kisses Tyler, overwhelmed with the need to just be  _ close.  _ He can’t explain it, but he feels like he just can’t be anywhere else except for tangled up in Tyler’s arms. Tate’s mouth moves quickly and hungrily, his mouth gliding against Tyler’s lips like the waves against the shore. 

 

Tate pulls away, mentally cursing himself for being so forward and needy. He shakes his head, moving his arms away from Tyler as his hand clenches around the jade rock. 

 

“Sorry, sorry, I should have asked. I just keep… I don’t know. I keep getting like this strong ass urge to just-“ 

 

Tyler cuts Tate off by moving through the sand, positioning himself on Tate’s left thigh, reconnecting their mouths in a more thought out, slow manner. Tate’s kisses are all urgent and clingy, but Tyler kisses like they’ve got the rest of their lives. 

 

“Hey, Tate Langdon,” Tyler pulls away, fidgeting with the buttons on Tate’s flannel. Tate looks at him patiently, ready to hear whatever it is that Tyler’s getting ready to say. The boy looks up through his bangs, pushing some of the black hair out of his eyes as he asks “What would your mom think if you had a boyfriend?” 

 

Tate smiles, leaning back up to kiss Tyler’s pointed nose. Tate mumbles “She’d totally freak.” 

 

“Good,” Tyler grins, kissing Tate’s forehead, reminiscent of his supposed demon powers that he showed Tate upon their first coffee date. They’re not demon powers at all, Tyler’s angelic mouth only plants the protection of a halo around Tate’s head with each kiss he presses to that blessed spot he loves so much. “Then I’m going to ask you out soon.”

 

“And if I ask you out first?” Tate challenges, knowing that will get a rise out of the kid straddling him. 

 

Tyler lifts his eyebrows and says vindictively “Over my dead body, Langdon.” 

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate comes home with Addie behind him, shutting the front door quietly. His sister takes off running down the hall, scurrying to her bedroom to hide the ice cream that Tate treated her to at the park. Their mother doesn’t allow sugar in the house, she considers sweets to be a treat that the children have to earn. 

 

He passes by the living room, fully aware of his mother sitting in her favorite chair. That’s her smoking room, he can tell she’s in there by the billowing puffs of smog wafting from the entryway. He passes by it quickly, trying his very best to go undetected. They’ve been doing okay recently, she accepted him back into her home after their last major fight, but Tate doesn’t want to exactly disturb that peace. 

 

She has other ideas, however. “Tate?” 

 

Tate stops in his tracks, the hallway stretching out as his escape towards his room seems impossibly far away by now. He better answer her, he knows how infuriated she gets whenever the spotlight isn’t on her. 

 

He slowly takes a few steps backwards, turning to face the doorway to the den. As expected, she’s sitting in her plush chair, a cigarette balanced between her painted nails. She’s got white gold on every finger, but a tan line sits on her ring finger where a lover’s promise once was. The tan line never faded, despite the fact he hasn’t seen his dad since childhood. 

 

“How are you?” She asks, her voice lacking any of its usual bite. 

 

He looks at her skeptically, feeling nauseous in her cloud of smog. Violet smoked menthols, too. The stench is sending him into fits of memories he never wanted to resurface. 

 

“What do you want?” He asks, alarmed. Not in a cruel manner, but a cautious one. 

 

“Come, sit,” Constance offers, patting the arm of the couch next to her. 

 

Tate stares at the invitation, wary of her attitude change. Is this bait? Is she just trying to lure him in so she can sink her hooks back into his feeble mind?

 

Tate obliges, taking the seat next to her chair and folding his hands over his knees anxiously. He feels tense with anxiety, his heart rate pounding in a speed that it hasn’t reached since he had a pair of lips on his own. Euphoria doesn’t accompany that nervousness, though. All he gets is a sickness that stems from the years of neglect and manipulation he was raised in. 

 

“How are you?” She asks, resting her hand on the side of his arm. “My boy, I haven’t seen your gorgeous face in so long.” 

 

Tate looks away, moving his arm out of her reach. He says in a low, warning voice, “I’m fine.” 

 

“The doctor called,” she says, and this earns Tate’s attention. 

 

There it is. The catch. There’s no way she flipped a switch and became the loving mother he always wished for, she is a woman full of ulterior motives. She already knows what she wants, the doctor told her all about it. Now she just wants Tate to say it. 

 

Tate lifts his eyes up, a harsh stare that tells her he is not falling for her little facade. “And what did he say?”

 

“He says you’re doing better,” she brings her hand up to stroke Tate’s cheek, admiring the work she’s created. Tate can feel the heat of her cigarette near his skin, so he moves his head to the side. 

 

“I am,” Tate says, his eyes flickering to the ground. “Not that you care.”

 

“Oh, but I do,” she says, followed by “I wouldn’t be paying for your damn medical bills if I didn’t, now would I?”

 

Tate flinches back, retaliating the way he thought he would whenever she dropped this gentle act. He’s not sure what she’s trying to achieve just yet, but like a snake rearing its head back in preparation for attack, she lifts the cigarette to her mouth so that her next words are filled with cigarette smoke. 

 

“Is it that boyfriend of yours that’s making you so happy?” She asks. 

 

There it is. The reveal. 

 

Tate looks at her, his face moody and looming with storm clouds. He tries to tell himself to stay calm, but his fists start to tighten anyways. 

 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Tate shakes his head. “We aren’t dating.” 

 

It’s not necessarily a lie, but Constance doesn’t see it as such. She responds, “Whatever he is, man shall not lie with man, Tate. You  _ know  _ it’s an abomination.”

 

“And how come, mom? Really, tell me why it’s so bad. Is it bad because Jesus told you so in some shitty prehistoric book? Or because you’re afraid of being sent to hell to repent for your son’s homosexual sins?” Tate snaps, shaking his head as he rubs his eye. The loud voices are starting to rise up in his mind, and after not having heard them for so long, their volume only seems to be twice as effective. “I’d rather spend an entire fucking eternity in hell than another minute in your manipulative, controlling, wasteland of a family.”

 

“Now is that  _ any  _ way to speak to the woman who  _ raised  _ you?” Constance raises her voice. “I have given you my  _ life,  _ Tate. I gave up  _ everything  _ for you mongrels, and you repay me by tramping around town with some… some queer?”

 

“Enough!” Tate shouts, covering his head with his hands. The voices are all so loud, repeating dangerous thoughts that scare him to even think about. “I’m  _ happy  _ for once. Can’t you fucking see that? I’m  _ happy.” _

 

There’s a silence between them for awhile, and then Constance is slowly reaching out to lower Tate’s hands away from his head. She strokes his dirty blonde hair, trying to soothe the shakes from the emotional boy. He leans into the touch helplessly, touch starved and deprived of any sort of maternal comforts. 

 

“Where did I go wrong?” She whispers, lifting Tate’s head up by the chin, his eyes watering to match his reddened nose. “I’ll never understand you, Tate. I’ll never understand how you turned out to be such a disappointment after God graced you with the gift of beauty.”

 

Tate stands up, looking at her with his blurred vision before taking off through the house. He doesn’t care about gentle footsteps anymore, he just needs to get far away from her. Far, far away. 

 

_ [***] _

 

“I understand that your relationship has reached the next level,” Romello says, sitting in his iron throne, looking down his nose at Tate the way he always does. 

 

“Is that what he said?” Tate smiles, leaning over the coffee table in an attempt to see the therapists notes. “What else did he say?”

 

“I am not at liberty to discuss that, Tate. You know that,” the man responds, using his leg to shield the clipboard on his lap. 

 

“Boring,” Tate lies back down, tossing a stress ball up into the air. “I suppose it’s the next level, sure. Did he tell you that we kissed?” 

 

There’s a pause of silence, so minuscule that it’s easy to miss. However, Tate is a bird watcher, he can detect silent, quick movements as if he’s got the eye of a trained assassin. He turns his head over, detecting a bit of surprise in his therapist’s face. 

 

“He didn’t,” Tate grins. “He totally didn’t tell you.” 

 

“...I was not aware of that, no,” the doctor shakes his head, writing down a note on his board. The pen scratches against the paper, and Tate tries to decipher what words are being written by the sounds of the ballpoint rolling, but he gives up after the first letter. “How did you feel about engaging in physical intimacy?” 

 

“Oh, it felt great,” Tate says truthfully. “He makes all the loud noise go away, y’know. He’s really good at that. He really didn’t tell you that we kissed?”

 

Romello pauses for a long time, trying to decide if he wants to break patient confidentiality and share personal information with his most clinical headcase. But Tate smiles, the smile that usually gets him anything he wants, and Romello sighs. 

 

“I was not aware that Tyler had gotten over his phobia, no,” the doctor says in a defeated tone. 

 

“Phobia?” Tate sits up, “What phobia?”

 

“Tate, I’m not allowed to-“

 

“What phobia?” Tate repeats, urgent. The stress ball tightens in his hand, the squishiness squelching through the gaps between his fingers. 

 

“For how close you guys are, I’m surprised you don’t know, Tate,” Romello shakes his head. “I’m not here to discuss Tyler. How’s your mother?”

 

And just like that, Tate shuts down for the rest of the session, only giving his doctor the bare minimum answers required to assure the man that he won’t go on a sporadic killing spree like the therapist seems to think is inevitable. 

 

Later that evening, Tate finds himself inside Tyler’s room for the first time. He knows it’s a milestone for them, for he didn’t think Tyler would ever trust him enough to expose the vulnerable side of his personality that shows through the cluttered bookshelves and scattered receipts crumpled on the floor. It’s not the clean, tidy room that Tate expected the Virgo to have, but it’s entirely  _ Tyler _ and that makes up for it. 

 

Tate didn’t get to admire the decor for long, though. The two boys found themselves fitting together on the silk bed sheets easily, Tate pinned to the bed as Tyler presses their chests flush against one another. Their mouths work in hot, heavy ways, the atmosphere more desirable than most pornos. 

 

“How was therapy?” Tyler asks between kisses. His tongue grazes the bottom of Tate’s lip, and the bigger one instantly grants access. 

 

“Boring,” Tate responds with a grunt, his words muffled between their mouths. “Why didn’t you tell him we kissed?”

 

Tyler breaks the kiss away, opening his eyes to stare down at Tate in confusion. He seems more betrayed than upset, yet any expression other than fondness makes Tate feel guilty. 

 

“Did you tell him?” Tyler asks, his voice higher than usual. 

 

“I-” Tate stumbles over his words, suddenly scared of where this is going. His hands slip off of Tyler’s waist, finding the bedsheets to tug on relentlessly. “I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Tyler leans down for a quick kiss, but pulls away before Tate can get lost in it again. He sits up on Tate’s hips, his thighs straddling either side of the male’s torso. “There’s just some things I want to be just  _ ours _ you know? Like… just Tyler and Tate. Not Tyler, Tate, and their shared therapist.”

 

“I understand,” Tate nods, admiring Tyler’s flushed cheeks and how his pupils always blow out to the edge of his irises whenever they make out. Tate flips the two of them over, easily rotating their positions so that Tyler lies below him. His hand brushes some hair aside so that he can see Tyler’s face more clearly, and then he says “He seemed surprised when I told him.”

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Tyler laughs. His hands begin to roam over Tate’s chest, which proves to be incredibly distracting for the taller one. “I haven’t mentioned this before, but I kind of… have this weird thing about touching people. Now I’m going to have to go in there and explain what makes you so special to be the one exception to this stupid irrational fear.” 

 

“Am I the exception?” Tate smiles, his eyes moving down Tyler’s features so that he can remember this moment exactly as it is. 

 

“I mean, I’m kissing you, aren’t I?” Tyler rolls his eyes. 

 

“Not enough,” Tate shakes his head, then leans down to reconnect their lips. All conversation ceases in that moment, the words being lost in translation between two tongues. Tyler lifts his legs up to wrap around Tate’s waist, while Tate slides a hand down the curves of Tyler’s concaving stomach to settle on the little protruding hipbone. 

 

God cuts their plans short with the sound of the front door swinging open on its creaky hinges. Tyler pushes Tate away a little forcefully, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. He forces Tate off of him, hurrying to his bedroom door to poke his head out. 

 

“Fuck,” he whispers, shutting the door again and trying to collect all of Tate’s things. As soon as Tate was in the room, Tyler started stripping him of all the layers the boy usually wears. Tyler now scrambles to find the flannel tossed to the side, all while pushing a cardigan towards Tate still sitting on the bed. “My mom’s home. She’s not supposed to be home. You can’t be here.”

 

Tate has never seen Tyler in a state of panic, albeit maybe the one time that Tate came over after a rough fight with his mom. He has heard very, very brief mentions of Tyler’s mother here and there, but that’s how everything is when it comes to Tyler. Brief and private. Tate has never pried into it, mostly because it never came up in their conversations. Even the ones that revolve around Constance, Tate could never find an angle to ask Tyler about his own mom, the green eyed beauty made sure to go about his sentences with so much precision that there was absolutely  _ no  _ room for Tate to even  _ try  _ to ask. Tyler has been all smirks and sarcasm since the day they met, but right now, for the first time, he looks truly scared. 

 

“How am I supposed to-“ Tate begins to ask, but he stops himself short when Tyler pushes his window open, looking back desperately at Tate. 

 

“Please,” Tyler urges, waving towards the window. “She’ll kill me. Please.”  

 

Those words ring in Tate’s mind, a distant memory of Tyler saying something similar the day they properly met one another. Is Tyler really that afraid of his own mom? Are things that bad? 

 

Why hasn’t Tate ever tried to help? Is he a shitty friend?

 

Tate gets up wordlessly, gathering all his things in a fast pace and approaching the window Tyler is standing next to. It’s only a few feet to the ground, Tyler thankfully lives on the first floor. It doesn’t really matter though, Tate would jump from the rooftop of the Empire State Building if Tyler were to ask him to. 

 

Tate turns, one leg hanging out the window as he grips the sill tightly. Tyler’s hand overlaps his on the windowpane, the short boy leaning in for one last kiss, a quick reassurance that Tate is still in the clear for all of this. 

 

“Thank you for coming by,” Tyler says quietly, pressing another kiss to Tate’s cheek. “I’m sorry you’re getting kicked out.”

 

“I feel like a dirty one night stand,” Tate teases his friend, resting his hand on Tyler’s neck as he kisses the male’s nose. 

 

“Never,” Tyler shakes his head. “Meet me on the corner of 5th and Witcham tomorrow morning. I’ll take you out for breakfast.” 

 

“Okay,” Tate nods, his ears tuning in on the footsteps coming down the hall. Tyler seems to hear them too, because his kisses all over Tate’s face become more frantic and rushed. “But I’m paying.”

 

“I’ll never let you,” Tyler remarks, finally pressing his lips to Tate’s forehead. “Now go. I happen to like you, I don’t want my boyfriend to get strangled to death by my psychopath mother.” 

 

Tate drops down to the ground, his shoes digging into the mud around the garden flowers. He apologizes to the plants he stepped on, trying to gently reposition a tulip that got smashed under his foot, when the words register in his head. 

 

He looks up at Tyler, the boy hanging out the window with a loving smile on his face. Tate is sure he matches that same fond expression, possibly fonder, as he repeats “Boyfriend?”

 

“Did I say boyfriend?” Tyler asks, smiling chaotically. “I meant psychotic criminal.” 

 

Tyler shuts the window after that, a final kiss pressed to the glass before he disappears from Tate’s sight altogether. His heart is still pounding from the adrenaline, his nerves shot in every single direction. He’s not sure if he’s on a high from the possibility of being caught, or if it’s the slip of the tongue that Tyler just let out on accident that is causing him so much joy. Either way, he knows that tonight was a good night, and he rides that wave of euphoria all the way back home where he successfully manages to sneak into his bedroom without interruptions. 

 

Almost as if the two boys are connected, Tate’s phone begins to ring on his bedside table as he finally lies down. He answers it within seconds, pressing the speaker to his ear as his smile begins to grow more and more by the second. 

 

“Hello?” He asks, knowing fully well who is on the other side. 

 

Still, even so, Tyler admits “Okay, so maybe I did mean boyfriend.” 

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate tries asking Tyler out a week later. 

 

They still have yet to officially ask, but the two have started referring to one another as each other’s significant other. It doesn’t come up often, but Tyler is the first one to let it slip. 

 

_ They were ordering at a bakery shop, Tyler was standing up on his tiptoes to lean over the tall counter to peer at the display sweets behind the cashier. “Can I get a strawberry shortcake? And my partner wants the brownie.” _

 

_ Tate smiled, settled his hand in the small of Tyler’s back, and the two carried on with their day as per usual.  _

 

Now, here they are, in yet another intimate situation. It always seems to end this way no matter what they end up doing, for example, the night started with Tyler showing Tate his favorite movies down in the furnished basement. The setting is straight out of the 70’s, complete with shag carpeting and wood paneling all along the walls. 

 

The dim lamp illuminates the shine on Tyler’s lips, a gleam in his eyes that only appears whenever he’s beneath Tate like this. His chest heaves rapidly, his hands roaming all over Tate’s torso. Tate’s hips restlessly grind against Tyler’s, the friction between their jeans earning a frustrated moan from the blonde. 

 

“You’re so pretty,” Tyler mumbles, his words slurring together in a lust-muddled tone. His lips travel along Tate’s jaw, kissing a sloppy line up to the boy’s earlobe. The title screen of whatever movie it was that they were watching plays idly in the background, drowned out by the sounds of two teenage boys thrusting against one another in desperation. “My dove. So fucking pretty.”

 

The praise only frustrates Tate even more, his steady hips losing all rhythm as he stutters out a moan. He’s never been told he’s pretty before, not in this circumstance. Compliments are all so new and foreign to him, and they sound entirely different coming off of Tyler’s tongue. 

 

“I’m-“ Tate sighs, closing his eyes in embarrassment as he rests his head on Tyler’s shoulder. This was a problem with Violet as well, but Tate doesn’t want to think of her while he’s got Tyler pinned to the ground like this. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to… y’know…” 

 

Tyler stops kissing Tate’s neck, his hand coming up to thread through the back of Tate’s messy hair. The boy feels like a heavy, comforting weight on top of Tyler, a pressure that the tiny one enjoys. 

 

“Oh,” Tyler says. “Zoloft?” 

 

“Lexapro,” Tate responds, his words muffled by the fabric of the sweater wrinkled around Tyler’s body. He feels relieved that Tyler can understand what the source of his incapability is, Violet never really understood that medication just  _ does  _ that sometimes. 

 

“Okay,” Tyler says passively. 

 

He grips Tate by the waist, exerting all his force to roll them over on the plush carpet. He straddles Tate’s hips, his anemically cold hands finding their way beneath Tate’s shirt and roaming along the snowy mountains of Tate’s untouched abdomen.

 

“Well,  _ I  _ could, you know,” Tyler suggests, looking down at Tate. “If that’s something you’re comfortable with. It’s kinda weird the first time, I get if you’re not down for that.” 

 

Tate frowns in confusion, opening his mouth to ask Tyler to clarify. Before the words can leave his mouth, it locks into place and he realizes what exactly it is that Tyler is asking of him.  _ A dick inside me,  _ Tate’s initial thought screams in concern, his senses all denying the mere idea of it. Tate’s never been with a boy before, in fact, his sexual history does not go beyond the vanilla girl he had beforehand. As he thinks about it, the initial shock begins to wear down, and those internal thoughts come around to  _ Tyler _ _ inside me.  _ That one doesn’t seem so scary. 

 

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Tate whispers, looking away out of fear of disappointing Tyler. “Can’t we start somewhere smaller?”

 

“Yeah,” Tyler doesn’t have a problem with that at all, lifting his hands up to the top button on his jeans. “I can give you a handjob if you want.”

 

“Something more intimate,” Tate’s voice trails off, his hand slowly sliding up Tyler’s thigh to palm against the outline of the boy’s shaft through his jeans. “Can I blow you?” 

 

Tyler raises his eyebrows in surprise, certainly not expecting that answer. Despite this, he still stands to his knees, unzipping his pants calmly. “Do you know how?”

 

“I mean, I know what  _ I  _ like, would I just do that but to you?” Tate helps him bring his pants down to around his ankles, guiding the boy onto the couch they initially rolled off of. 

 

“...Kind of,” Tyler shakes his head, petting Tate’s cheek as the blonde situates himself between Tyler’s spread legs. “You’ll see.”

 

Tate sinks his mouth down onto Tyler’s dick, trying to push aside all thoughts about the foreign object his body is not used to. He’s hyperfixated on it, swatting Tyler’s hand away from where the boy was holding himself at the base to keep it steady for Tate. 

 

“Don’t help me,” Tate mumbles, his words muffled and barely indistinguishable between his full mouth. 

 

Tyler lifts his hands up in surrender, letting the boy do what he wants. About fifteen minutes later, Tate pulls away with a trail of saliva following closely behind from his shiny bottom lip. He looks at Tyler in frustration, one of his hands coming up to rub the side of his mouth that aches. 

 

“Why aren’t you cumming?” Tate asks. 

 

“I can hardly get off to blowjobs,” Tyler shrugs, nonchalant. He doesn’t seem as flustered as Tate is, but then again, Tyler is more experienced in the gay sex department than Tate. “It takes me, like, forty minutes if my dick is being sucked.”

 

“Why didn’t you  _ tell  _ me that?” Tate huffs in annoyance. 

 

“Because, you looked so eager and excited, baby,” Tyler sticks out his bottom lip, gently stroking Tate’s messy hair. “I didn’t wanna stop you. But, it’s fine, I’ll go jerk off in the bathroom or something.”

 

“No,” Tate shakes his head, tightening his grip around the basin of Tyler’s boner. “I wanna make you feel good.”

 

“Your jaw and neck will be sore tomorrow,” Tyler says as a warning, stroking his hand along Tate’s jawline in indication. 

 

“I don’t care,” he shakes his head, positioning himself back into place. 

 

Tyler smiles, shy and cavalier. He’s so relaxed about this, as if there isn’t a painful erection between the two of them. He nods and says “If that’s what you want.” 

 

“If I make you cum, will you be my boyfriend?” Tate asks hopefully. It’s the first time he’s asked and he’s not expecting much. He knows Tyler is stubborn, he knows that the boy will never settle for anything he himself hasn’t orchestrated. A true Virgo at heart, Tyler controls the situation to his approval. In that complex little mind of his, he has already decided exactly how and when he’s going to ask Tate out, the blonde just doesn’t realize it yet. Tate asks  _ knowing _ that Tyler will say no, but he needs to present the question in the air just for the sake of taking a shot. There’s a void in him that can only be filled by the confirmation of a relationship the two already know that they’re engaged in. 

 

Tyler smiles, as sly as ever. He shakes his head, threading his hands through Tate’s messy hair. He has those sparkly devilish eyes again, the ones that send chills down Tate’s spine every time. 

 

“No I will not,” Tyler remarks, then pushes Tate’s head down onto him. 

 

_ [***] _

 

The second time Tate asks, the answer remains the same. 

 

This time, the two of them are slipping through the front door of the Langdon house. The large, royal clock located at the end of the hallway indicates that its half past two in the morning, their clothes soaking wet from running in the rain. Tyler stands in the foyer, shaking wet hair off of him like a distressed rabbit, his nimble fingertips unbuttoning the flannel Tate had wrapped around him the second it started raining. 

 

Tate turns and whispers “Wait here. I have to check if she’s awake.”

 

Tyler doesn’t ask  _ who _ , they have a mutual bond when it comes to shitty mothers. Tyler simply nods, rubbing his hands over his cold arms, shivering by the front door as Tate starts to quietly make his way down the hall. 

 

As expected, he hears her voice calling out through the house, “Tate?” 

 

He stops in his tracks, trying to think of any sort of excuse to come up with about why he’s coming home at two in the morning. After coming up blank, he slowly approaches the kitchen, entering the cloud of her cigarette smoke. 

 

“Where have you been? It’s been pouring for  _ hours _ , I was worried about you,” her words sound kind, but the slither of her tongue resembles that of a snake. She looks at him with disapproving eyes, eyeing his wet appearance with disdain in her expression. “Don’t tell me you were out tramping around with that new toy of yours once again.”

 

“His car broke down,” Tate says defensively, staring at the countertop instead of meeting her eyes. That much is true, Tyler got a shitty junk car and consequently it broke down the following day. However, the two were actually slow dancing on an empty highway, risking the possibility of being hit by oncoming traffic just for a glimpse of what homecoming would have been like had they known each other during their academic years. 

 

“That’s God giving you a clear cut sign that man shall not lie with man,” Constance stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray, lifting her eyes up to her disappointing son. That must be her favorite thing to say with the amount of times that Tate has had to hear it within the last six months. 

 

“He-“ Tate stops mid sentence when he feels Tyler next to him, his attention sucking straight to the ebony haired boy just as it always does whenever he enters a room. Tyler stands beside Tate, wrapping his little hands around Tate’s cold arm. He stares at Constance a little friendly, but mostly challenging. His face looks as blank as ever, but Tate can read those green eyes better than any book a library could offer. He’s offering kindness to Constance, yet the little gleam says that he won’t hesitate to make her life a living hell. 

 

“Hello, Ms. Langdon. Your home is lovely,” Tyler smiles, his grip on Tate tightening with nerves. 

 

Tate moves his arm around Tyler’s shoulders, bringing the small one close into his side the way he always does whenever Tyler gets anxious. Tyler’s hands move from Tate’s arm to clenching the side of his shirt, but Tate doesn’t mind. He just smiles down at him and his overflowing abundance of cuteness, then returns his attention back towards his mother. 

 

Constance looks amused by the sight before her, a scary smirk taking over her features. She grins, her eyes hungrily devouring all of Tyler’s appearance. “Oh, so this is your little friend that I’ve heard  _ so _ much about?”

 

“Boyfriend,” Tate corrects her boldly, then looks down when he feels Tyler tense up beside him. He asks for the second time, “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

 

Tyler looks up at him, then over at Constance. He returns his eyes back to Tate and says “No, I don’t.”

 

Constance chuckles, musing with humor as she shakes her head, pointing a finger at Tyler. “Now I can’t blame you, honey. The boy’s a living nightmare, for heaven’s sake, that poor girl before you… Well, Tate, I suppose not even a queer could love you, my dear.” 

 

“That’s not it,” Tyler steps forward, placing his hands on the back of the chair parallel to hers. Tate watches him cautiously, surprised that Tyler took such brave steps. The metaphor clearly isn’t lost on any of them; where Tate stands at a cautious distance, Tyler merely hops those boundaries without a shred of apprehension on his face. “I’m waiting to ask. He’s going to be my boyfriend, just not yet. You  _ can’t  _ stop us, or stop him from loving me. He is your  _ son _ , not your toy to live vicariously through. No matter how much you want it, he will never be what you want him to be. He will be what he is.” 

 

Tate instantly reaches out, tugging on the back of Tyler’s flannel at an attempt to pull him back. His mother’s wrath knows no limits, and he does not need Tyler caught in the crossfire. However, Tyler merely waves Tate’s hands off, keeping his steady gaze locked with Constance’s. 

 

“Well,” the woman spreads a grin, conniving and evil. She says, “The abomination’s real brave for someone so condemned, you should take notes, Tate. Lot different than that moody little girl you were obsessed with-“

 

“Stop bringing her up,” Tate is encouraged by Tyler’s bravery. He can do anything if Tyler is here, he finds his voice with his other half. “He is not her. I’m different now,  _ we’re  _ different.”

 

Constance looks away, aware that she’s finally lost her son. She knew this day would come, it was all just a matter of time. Tate finally finds a new source, the codependent boy has finally left the nest. She’s clipped his wings from birth, she knows that he won’t be able to fly far. Despite this, she’ll let him try anyway, the fall back down to earth will bring reality crashing back down to him. 

 

Constance doesn’t realize that she lost her son long ago. 

 

“Run along, then,” she waves the boys off, her eyes watering as she doesn’t recognize the offspring in front of her. Tyler turns and smiles up at Tate, a tiny victory celebrated too early. Constance adds on, “But I will  _ not  _ allow any fornication while you two are under my roof. I am still your mother, and the same rules apply even if you’ve got… a boy falling into your bed beside you.”

 

Tate takes this as much permission that he can get, grabbing Tyler’s hand and running out of the kitchen. He leads his friend up the stairs, the two clumsily falling over one another as their giggles echo through the empty house. It’s been years since this house has heard laughter, Tyler has made that change. 

 

“What if she catches us?” Tyler asks, the air being knocked out of him as Tate throws him down on the bed. Tate crawls above his tiny one, hovering over him as Tyler slips the wet shirt off of Tate’s body. “She’s psycho. She’s probably hanging outside this door right now.”

 

“Hi mom,” Tate says over his shoulder, a careless smile lazily sprawling across his face. He returns back to Tyler, pressing little kisses all over his neck. “Thank you, bunny. For standing up for her. It was totally hot.”

 

“I think you’ve got mommy issues, Tate Langdon,” Tyler lifts his arms up so that Tate can strip the wet clothes off of him. “Join the club.”

 

“You’re so fucked up,” Tate shakes his head, sinking his mouth down onto Tyler’s exposed collarbone. “You’re going to have to say yes eventually.”

 

Tyler laughs, bouncing around the walls of Tate’s bedroom. This room hasn’t seen anything but misery and pain, a new light being shed across these walls like the sun breaking over the horizon to bring dawn after the longest night. 

 

“No, I won’t,” Tyler shakes his head, kicking his damp jeans off. He tugs on Tate’s belt loops, saying softly “Come here, let me hold you.”

 

Tate rolls onto his side, positioning his spine to fill in the curve of Tyler’s torso. Tyler throws his arm over Tate’s waist, pulling the male into his chest and pressing his lips to the back of Tate’s neck. His fingers fumble with the waistband of Tate’s boxers, just to keep his fingertips warm. Tate’s skin raises with goosebumps everywhere that the boy touches, feeling so warm and needed in the tiny one’s embrace. 

 

“But we’ll be together?” Tate asks, needily wrapping his hand around Tyler’s. 

 

“Always you and me, bubba,” Tyler nuzzles his cold nose into the back of Tate’s neck. 

 

Tate lies awake much later than Tyler, their positions shifting around the further Tyler falls into a deep slumber. Tate lies with his head on Tyler’s stomach, his arms wrapped around the boy’s narrow waist. The sound of Beauregard stomping around in the attic is keeping him up, echoing through his bedroom below and causing the spelling bee trophies to tremble on Tate’s bookshelves. 

 

Tate stands up, careful to lift himself off the mattress as to not disturb the creaking springs beneath his bed. He stands beside the edge, looking at the way Tyler adjusts to the lack of warmth around him, the skinny boy simply hugs a pillow where Tate once was. He adjusts quickly, effortlessly. 

 

Tate sits at his desk, feeding his hamster through the tiny slots of its cage. His legs bounce up and down nervously, anxiety causing his throat to go dry as a lump forms in the back of tongue. He feels pressure squeezing in his chest, as if he’s locked in a vice and someone keeps cranking tighter and tighter. His hands restlessly clench and unclench, his jaw locking up as he grinds his teeth. He feels as if he can see every single blood cell floating around behind his eyes, the frantic atoms busying themselves and trying so very hard to stay together. 

 

Tate’s molecules are vibrating at a frequency too fast to stay together, the collapse of his entire system only inevitable. His hands tremble as he needs  _ something  _ to remind him that he’s there, existing. Something to remind him he’s  _ real.  _

 

He slowly pulls out the top drawer of his desk, looking calmly at the various exacto knives and box cutters he has stored away for special occasions. Even a disassembled pencil sharpener from when he was extremely desperate, but it got the job done. He just needs to feel grounded and human, the scary visions and shaking thoughts won’t leave him alone. 

 

He isn’t real. He’s not here. He just needs proof that he exists, that his atoms are making up a true compound, that he is mortal just like everyone else. Some blood will satiate those thoughts, the scars on his wrists tell a story about every other time he’s dissociated from this reality. 

 

“Tate?” He hears behind him, a hard crash back down to earth. The satellite is knocked out of orbit, and Tate begins to freefall back to reality. He turns in his stolen director’s chair, seeing a tiny shadow lifting itself from the messy bed sheets. His voice sounds different when he’s half asleep, he mumbles with tired tongues. “Oh. I thought you left. What are you doing over there?”

 

“Just thinking,” Tate says quickly, sliding the desk drawer close. 

 

“...Well, come think over here. I’m cold,” Tyler whines, moving the blankets aside. Lightning spiderwebs through the darkened sky, lighting up Tate’s bedroom with a temporary clarity that shows Tyler’s earnest expression. 

 

Tate gets up, his limbs numb but tingly as he comes back to his senses. That vice around his chest begins to loosen, but he doesn’t get in the bed quite yet. He stands at the edge, stroking Tyler’s ebony hair a bit cautiously. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About redemption?”

 

The mood in the room plummets. Tyler pulls away, leaving Tate in the same cold that the boy was just protesting. Tate can feel the shift in the atmosphere, taking a step back just out of precaution. 

 

“What about it?” Tyler sounds awake now, guarded. His stand-off attitude resembles the way he used to sound before Tate was allowed into those other boxes inside Tyler’s mind, and Tate realizes he is being pushed back into his own category, those walls closing in as Tyler tightens security. 

 

“Am I really…” he trails off, unsure of how to phrase the sentence. “Worthy of it? Like… I don’t- It’s hard to imagine that I  _ deserve  _ a second chance at love after what happened-“

 

Tate stops mid sentence, unsure if he wants to utter Her name. He feels paralyzed, rejection coursing through his body the same way that lightning filled the cracks in the sky. 

 

“Oh,” Tyler relaxes, moving across the mattress. He reaches out for Tate’s boxers, tugging on the waistband to pull the man in closer. “Everyone deserves redemption, baby.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Tate gestures out vaguely as if Tyler will understand, then rubs his own eyes pitifully. 

 

Tyler does understand the noncommittal hand wave. He always understands, even when Tate can’t put it into words. Tyler wraps his arms around Tate’s hips, pressing his cheek flush against the lower part of Tate’s warm abdomen. Tate’s hands settle on top of Tyler’s head, reveling in the warmth that the embrace holds. 

 

“I know it feels like you fucked up, Tate. I know everyone tells you that you did. I know you’re afraid of making those mistakes with me, and maybe you will. I can’t predict the future, but I know that I can contribute to what happens. Whether you break my heart or not, I don’t care. Just as long as you’re holding my heart in the first place, I don’t care how we end up. You’re here now, with me, feeling all these things, and that’s what matters,” Tyler sighs out, lifting his head up to rest his chin right above Tate’s belly button. “Trust me. Everything’s going to be alright, you’re okay.”

 

Tate moves to sit on the edge of the bed, allowing Tyler to drape himself over Tate’s back and hook his chin over the pale shoulder that glows beneath the rainy window. “What if you get bored?”

 

“I don’t know,” Tyler shrugs, pressing little kisses all along the edges of Tate’s moonlit skin. “Then you find someone else to be your redemption.”

 

“What if I don’t  _ want  _ anybody else?” Tate scoffs, his feelings hurt. Does Tyler think he can just  _ move on _ ? Does that mean that he’ll move on from Tate just as quick? “You’re all I need.”

 

Tyler is quiet for a moment, and then he pulls away from Tate all together. The boy turns and looks over his shoulder to see what happened, only to find Tyler lying back down in bed, his back facing Tate. 

 

“I’m not a fucking savior, Tate.”

 

_ [***] _

 

The next time that Tate asks Tyler out, the lucky third, Tyler doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say yes, either. But rather a promising answer that eliminates some of the worry that has been nagging at Tate for weeks. 

 

That morning, Tate had woken up to Tyler sneaking into his room undetected. When Tate sat up, Tyler pressed a finger to his lips and signed out that Constance was downstairs. Then, he picked out an outfit for Tate, whispering tiny little “come with me”s in the boy’s ear as he got dressed. 

 

Tyler led Tate far out of town, dipping through the forest line and submerging himself in the thick brambles of the woods. He refused to say where he was taking Tate, but he held the boy’s hand to lead him through a well traveled path. Little stones pave the way through the mulch and soil, and Tyler hops from each one with the precision of someone who visits here frequently. 

 

The path led to a little cottage just on the brink of a swamp, trinkets and wind chimes hanging from every surface. Gnomes and friendly statues litter the front yard, various squirrel feeders fixated throughout the property. Fairy lights float amongst the lattice of rose trellises, illuminating a wonderfully lush garden. The overall inviting atmosphere seems to compensate for the fact that it smells like shit, but not that Tate really minds. Tyler looks excited to be here, and that’s all that really matters. 

 

“I got you a present,” Tyler explains, “Well, my friend Misty did, but I asked her to get it. She’s really nice, you’ll like her.”

 

“Friend?” Tate repeats, watching Tyler step over a patch of mushrooms. “I thought I was your friend.”

 

Tyler scoffs. “I can have more than one, Tate. Don’t you have other friends?”

 

Tyler hops up the cobblestone path to knock on the shabby wooden door of the cottage, a wavy haired blonde appearing only seconds after as if she was waiting for the two to arrive. Her wardrobe is channeling the 70’s, complete with floral prints and fringes on every article adorning her curves. Tate looks at the rings and bracelets lining her wrists and hands, jewelry made from rocks of the earth catching in the sunlight. She brings Tyler in for a pretend air-hug, her eyeliner smudged around the outsides as her eyes water from a big smile. 

 

“Other friends?” Tate mumbles under his breath, keeping his distance from the two as they engage in a small way talk revolving around the moon cycle last week. “...No, not really.”

 

Misty guides them in, not afraid to touch Tate but wary of laying hands on Tyler. Misty grabs Tate’s hand, pulling on him to come sit down on her cushioned stool, the creaky seat wrapped with vines towards the bottom. Tate obeys, warming up to her friendly personality. It’s not often that Tate meets people who exude sunshine, he believes that the world is a filthy place. Misty may live in dirt, but her personality is as pure and polished as one can be. It’s refreshing, at least Tate thinks so. 

 

Tyler comes around to the back of him, covering Tate’s eyes with his gentle hands. Tate goes a bit rigid from the lack of sight, but when he feels Tyler’s lips press against his jawline, he feels okay again. Tyler leans up a bit, whispering into his ear “Happy birthday, my dove.”

 

“If I ask you out, will you say yes?” Tate asks, his hands coming up to touch Tyler’s knuckles. His fingertips are gentle, he has been learning how to touch with less desperation now that Tyler’s in his life. 

 

“Why should I say yes?” Tyler laughs, though it’s not teasing. It’s the laugh that is only reserved for Tate, the one that he doesn’t show to anybody else. Misty picks up on this, shooting a knowing look towards Tyler with a playful little smirk on her berry stained lips. 

 

“Because it’s my birthday,” Tate says as if it’s obvious. 

 

“He’s a cancer?” Misty gasps, although the information was already in her brain. “The stars have aligned for you two. The moon sends her best wishes for your love.”

 

“Thank you, moon,” Tyler’s voice sounds distant, like he’s talking up towards the ceiling rather than to Misty or Tate. Tate knew that Tyler believed in mystical bullshit, but he never thought he would get to see that faith firsthand. Now, his voice is back next to Tate’s ear. “I’m not going to accept just because it’s your birthday.”

 

Tate whines, low and frustrated, his hands gripping the fragile wrists of his blindfold. 

 

“Oh, he’s a needy one,” the girl’s voice coos fondly, finding Tate to be just the cutest thing. “Never thought you’d reel in such a catch.”

 

“Isn’t he?” Tyler asks fondly, moving a hand to quickly ruffle Tate’s already messy hair. “He’s great. But darling, please stop asking. I’m going to ask you today, just be patient.”

 

“I’ll say no,” Tate responds defiantly, trying to peek through Tyler’s hands but failing miserably. 

 

“You won’t,” Tyler laughs, shaking his head. 

 

He can hear footsteps echoing through the cottage, Misty disappearing to somewhere he’s not sure of. Tate can hear her jewelry clang together more prominently than her feet, telling him that she is lifting and carrying an object back towards them. Something metal. Something… fluttering. 

 

“Okay, so I know Constance won’t let you have anything other than your hamster, but- this is something we’ve talked about before, and I just thought-“ Tyler cuts himself off when the object he’s hiding from Tate decides to let out a joyful chirp. “Fuck. Haha, alright, guess I won’t finish my speech.”

 

Tyler begins to lift his hands off of Tate’s eyes, but Tate merely smiles and brings his hands up to keep his blindfold on. He shakes his head, joy rising up in his chest where he thinks a heart is. “No, keep going.”

 

“Okay,” Tyler sighs, continuing uneasily. “It’s, like, maybe a symbol? Or whatever, I don’t know-“

 

“You do know,” Tate says, rubbing his thumb against Tyler’s nervous hands. “Don’t downplay yourself.”

 

Tyler takes a deep breath in, calming down the way he always does when Tate brings him back from the endless loop of second guessing himself. 

 

“Okay, yeah,” he says, “Yeah. It’s a metaphor. You say you like birds because they can fly away when things get too crazy, but I think you can keep them until the crazy goes away. Like, to have that power, that control… it’s like a safety blanket. You can take back that flight, make it yours again. You can set it free when you feel like things aren’t crazy anymore, and then birds won’t have to leave when things get bad anymore. They can leave when things are good, too. They can leave whenever, Tate. You aren’t confined to flying away to hide from the bad. You can go anywhere you want.”

 

Tyler finally lifts his hands up, the blinding whiteness of new light flooding Tate’s senses. Misty has pulled back the curtains of a window, allowing a narrow beam of sunlight to illuminate a hallway ending on the object placed in front of him. 

 

“No fuckin’ way,” Tate breathes out, getting off the stool to kneel on the floor. 

 

A golden, classic birdcage is engraved with curling wires and intricate designs. It’s about the size of Tate’s torso, little poles fixated in the center to act as a place for the bird to perch. 

 

It’s a dove, a snowy white one that has the prettiest wings that keep fluttering about. Its blackened eyes stare up at Tate expectantly, its head twitching from side to side. 

 

“Go ahead and take her out,” Misty crouches down besides Tate, “I’ve been working with her for awhile now. She’s tame as can be.”

 

Tate unlatches the gate, nervously sticking his hand in with apprehension. He’s never been this close to a bird before, they all fly away whenever he gets too close. He looks up at where Tyler is standing a few feet away, his face reflecting Tate’s fond expression. 

 

The bird lowers its beak down near Tate’s fingers as if inspecting them, then hops onto Tate’s hand easily. Tate lets out an excited little giggle, pulling the sleek dove out of her cage and holding her up into the light shining through the stained glass windows. 

 

“What’s her name?” Misty asks, leaning over and resting her cheek against Tate’s shoulder. 

 

Tate is a little hesitant about the physical contact, but he has a feeling that Misty is just kind of like this with everybody. The bird walks up Tate’s arm with frantic little footsteps, ruffling her wings every so often. 

 

“I don’t know,” Tate shakes his head. “I never thought I would-“

 

Tate is cut off when he notices Tyler stepping into the pillar of light beaming in through the window. Tate looks up, those kaleidoscopes of a rainbow spectrum serenading the outskirts of Tyler’s features, the stained glass windows bringing out the pine green in his eyes. 

 

“Hey,” Tyler says, earning the attention of the bird. Misty’s eyes travel quickly between the two, a nervous little smile on her face. Her hand reaches out to stroke the bird as a distraction so that she doesn’t seem like she’s eavesdropping on their conversation. (But she totally is.) “I like you, Tate Langdon. Quite a lot. I think I’m going to like you for awhile.”

 

Tate smiles, a reassuring gesture to ease the rocky shores of Tyler’s anxiety. The beach of Tyler’s mind subsides some of the foam when he sees that smile, those dimples indenting on Tate’s cheeks being more of a comfort than the therapy that the two have in common. 

 

“I know, Tyler,” Tate nods. “You don’t have to say it, I know.” 

 

Tyler bites his tongue, nodding in embarrassment as he shifts his attention elsewhere in the shack. He feels embarrassed by his confession, but it was eating him alive. Seeing the way Tate’s face lit up with pure happiness upon receiving the gift he’s been bestowed only filled Tyler with a sense of complete euphoria he’s never really gotten before. An explosion of emotions that were bursting at Tyler’s seams, a voice in the back of his head yelling to be heard, a raw thump in his chest demanding to be felt. 

 

He told Tate and that soothes some of the gnawing feelings that echo in his hollow chest. The hunger is satiated for now, but it will rear its head once more every time Tate runs his hand over Tyler’s knuckles or rests his head on top of the little one’s. 

 

After an afternoon of herbal tea with Misty Day, Tyler has to practically drag Tate away from the girl. Tyler was right, Tate does like her. She’s got this unblemished perspective about society that Tate thinks is fascinating, along with her overwhelming desire to just give and give and give. Tate did not expect to walk out of there with Tyler’s book bag filled with various herbs and reads about entomology. Misty has promised to show Tate how to preserve butterflies so that their wings stay intact, although she’s more excited about the spells he said he’s eager to see. Tyler rolls his eyes at the mention of witchcraft, a bit of a scoff that goes unnoticed to everybody except for Tate’s finely tuned ear. 

 

Tyler has to drag Tate out of the cottage. Misty has this big, dewy-eyed look upon her face, her hands trembling a little as she holds them out to touch Tate’s shoulder. 

 

“You’ll come back and visit, right?” Misty asks, her voice laced with fear. Tate recognizes the abandonment phobia in her words because he can hear that same tone in his own voice so very often. 

 

“Yeah, if that’s what you want,” Tate nods, tugging on Tyler’s arm to slow down. Tyler stops and looks back at the two, annoyed with the delay of their exit. Tyler is carrying the unnamed birdcage, Tate’s gift peacefully perched inside as if she’s unbothered by the movement. Misty trained her very well. 

 

“It gets lonely out here all by myself,” Misty’s hands travel down the length of Tate’s arm. “This whole big forest all to myself…”

 

Tyler steps between the two of them, pushing on Tate a little protectively. Misty didn’t mean it in any imposing way, but Tyler is a chaotic little being that runs off of pure jealousy. 

 

“Okay, Misty,” he scoffs, “This is why I didn’t bring him out to meet you, you weirdo. We’ll come back.”

 

“You promise?” Misty holds her hand up. 

 

Tyler hovers his hands against hers, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth between their skin. Tyler smiles comfortingly, a little “I promise,” slipping past his lips. 

 

Later that night, as Tate sits on the floor of his room with the dove perched upon his hand, he asks “Did you mean it? Will you go back to Misty, or was that another lie?”

 

“ _ Another _ ?” Tyler sits up from where he’s lying in Tate’s bed. Then, he shakes his head and says “No, we’re not doing this.”

 

“Doing what?” Tate asks, standing on the edge of hurt. 

 

The bird chirps noisily, unaware of the tense air filling the room around them. Tyler stares off at Tate’s cork board, a lot of receipts collecting from their various dates that Tate insists on holding onto. 

 

“Come here,” Tyler asks, patting the mattress next to him. 

 

Tate stands up, nervously twisting his fingers around in front of him as if he’s unsure. The bird flies about the room curiously, exploring her new living environment. She seems confused about not being at Misty’s anymore, but she still obeys Tate as if Tate were the one to be training her all this time. 

 

Tate sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his knees uneasily. He doesn’t feel welcome here, not even in his own room. He wants to, though. He wants that flurry of sparkles between the two of them again. 

 

“You’re so pretty, Tate,” Tyler exhales, tugging on the boy’s arm to get him to lie down. “I had this whole speech prepared about everything you’ve given me these past couple months. Everything you’ve done. I don’t say it enough, but I care for you.”

 

“You do?” Tate asks hopefully, turning his head to look at where Tyler is resting in the sheets. 

 

“Obviously,” Tyler scoffs. He glances at Tate but then looks away in embarrassment, his eyes shiny with emotion. “I kind of forgot how that speech went, though. I forget a lot of things when I’m with you. It’s like, when you’re around, nothing else really matters.”

 

“I feel the same way,” Tate moves against the bed to bring the two of them closer together. “I don’t have bad thoughts when I’m with you. I’ve been doing better, a lot better. On my own, too. You’re not my savior, but you… you help me, Tyler. You help me be strong enough for myself.” 

 

There’s a silence between them that’s only disrupted by the fluttering of delicate wings perching on the bookshelf filled with all of Tate’s favorite literature. Some books are missing, Tate will give Tyler his recommendations and Tyler has yet to return the books that he’s already finished before accepting another one. 

 

“So go out with me,” Tyler says, directly followed by “If you want to. I can’t do the grand theatrics anymore, I had this whole plan but I just don’t want to wait that long. Go out with me, Tate Langdon.” 

 

Tate smiles up at his ceiling, staring up at the popcorn texture and imagining the stars hidden above the roof. Tate rolls over, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at Tyler. 

 

He smiles, one that he would later realize is the first smile of being in love. Tate says, “No.”

 

Tyler scoffs and rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to come back with some snarky remark. Before the quip can leave his lips, however, Tate is pushing his lips against Tyler’s in a fit of passion, his chest growing so big that he’s afraid his ribs won’t be able to contain whatever it is that’s growing inside. 

 

“I really like you, Tyler,” Tate breathes out, pressing kisses all over Tyler’s flushed face. “A lot. So, so much. I get stupid around you.”

 

“You’re always stupid,” Tyler laughs, but cranes his neck up to press a kiss to Tate’s nose. “I like you too. You know this.”

 

“I don’t want to fly away from this,” Tate whispers. “I want to be in this with you, all in. I’m in it for the long term. Are you okay with that?”

 

Tyler looks away, a sly smile on his face. He has those secretive eyes that Tate has learned to fear, yet he still laces his fingers together on the back of Tate’s neck and says “Yeah. All in.”

 

The unnamed dove sings when they kiss this time, a melody of chirps that sync up with the symphony humming in their chests. 

 

[***]

 

The morning light comes through the blinds, allowing little lines of sun to kiss the exposed back in Tate’s bed. Tate’s been up since dawn, watching the orange and pink hues of a sunrise reflect off of Tyler’s smooth, unblemished skin. He’s counted every freckle on Tyler’s back, now moving up to count the clusters gathering on his bony little shoulder. 

 

“You’re staring,” Tyler’s voice breaks through the dust in the air. 

 

Tate startles just slightly, surprised by Tyler waking up before noon. Tate instantly relaxes into an ease however, settling back down to nuzzle his nose against Tyler’s shoulder. 

 

“You’re pretty,” Tate responds as if it’s obvious. “I was counting your freckles.”

 

Tyler rolls over onto his side, showing Tate his sleep ridden eyes and messy bed head. His cheek is red and flushed, lines imprinted against his skin where the pillowcase creased and wrinkled. “How many?”

 

“Forty eight on your back. Eighty seven on your shoulder,” Tate exhales, moving his hand up to press against Tyler’s bare chest. It isn’t often that Tyler allows himself to be exposed in front of Tate for extended periods of time. He’s insecure about his frame, his posture, the folds, the curves. He’s got wider hips than most men, but Tate loves the little dip in his narrow waist that flows out into those hips. 

 

“What else do you notice?” Tyler asks curiously, bringing Tate’s hand up to rest against his cheek. He covers Tate’s hand with his palm, stroking the skin softly. 

 

Tate glances down at the area beneath Tyler’s belly button, a little glimpse just to confirm what he already knows. He looks away, staring back at the lines of sunlight fluttering into the room. 

 

“Thirty six scars,” Tate whispers quietly. “Four burn marks.”

 

Tyler smiles, kisses Tate’s knuckles, and says “Observant.” 

 

“Tyler…” Tate slowly trails off, unsure of how to approach the situation with a boy who will shut down if you ask him something too personal. Tate has learned the boundaries, this is something guaranteed to piss Tyler off. 

 

Tyler waves him off, disregarding the situation. He falls onto his back, bringing the bed sheets up to cover his lower abdomen and hide those scars from view. Truthfully, Tate first noticed them last night. He had his hands on Tyler’s thighs and felt a handful of scars that weren’t there the first time Tate gave him a blowjob. New hurt, new pain. Tate is not being the bandage that he thinks he is, he needs to try harder. 

 

“Do you want to go to the library today? Your books are overdue,” Tyler comments, lifting his hand up as an offer. 

 

Tate accepts it graciously, turning their palms over in the warm morning sun, crisp golden edges holding their hands hostage. 

 

“Okay. Will you wear my clothes?” Tate asks needily, leaning over to kiss Tyler’s shoulder. The sun may have kissed each of those freckles, but Tate will kiss them twice as much. 

 

Tyler smiles but doesn’t reply, just quietly sits up in bed so that he can fetch Tate’s discarded flannel on the floor. 

 

The two boys love the library. It’s one of their favorite places to be. Tate thinks that the only other place he likes being as much as he loves the library must be on his knees, showing his lover the stars in the sky that clumsily fall down with each orgasm. 

 

Tate reads up on biology books, he wants to get into botany. There was something beautiful about all the life growing out at Misty’s cottage, he wants to be able to feel like he’s contributing to the world as well by bringing plants back to life in ways he can’t keep himself afloat. Tyler, however, is invested in yet another big project. 

 

He gets on these kicks every once in awhile, obsessed with one crime scene he’ll see in an old timey newspaper. He thinks they’re fascinating, so he’ll drag Tate to the library every day so that he can go through the news clippings of every single report made around that time period. Right now, he’s tackling something much more ambitious, but with the fiery tenacity that always ignites in his eyes, Tate has a feeling that if anybody can crack this unsolved case, it’s going to be Tyler. 

 

Tate looks up from his readings about fertilizer, bored with the shit talk. The many, many reports about the Zodiac Killer are sprawled out in front of Tyler, the studious boy taking notes in his journal. 

 

It happens almost instantly. 

 

Like a match being blown out, a lightswitch being flicked off, a bulb being shot. The glass shatters, and Tyler drops his pen. 

 

Tate watches as his boyfriend starts to take in deep breaths, his eyes widening. He looks around frantically at all of the writings, the letters, the crime scene photos. “Why am I doing this?”

 

Tate leans forward a little, confused about this sudden behavior. 

 

Tyler shakes his head, pushing away from the table. His breathing only quickens faster and faster, his chest collapsing beneath Tate’s baggy flannel. He brings his hands up to his head, covering his ears with his hands. He shakes his head, closing his eyes. 

 

“Why am I doing this? This is fucked. I’m just as bad as he was. I’m going to hurt people.”

 

“Hey, what?” Tate realizes this is more than just a little moodswing, Tyler is having a full blown panic attack. “Hey. Ty. Calm down, what’s going on?”

 

“I can’t feel anything. I don’t. I don’t  _ feel _ , there’s no- there’s nothing there. I’m going to just fucking end up in some newspaper too. I don’t want to hurt people, Tate. I’m scared of me. What’s wrong with me? Why am I incomplete?”

 

Tate stands up, moving around the table to the other chair residing besides Tyler. He reaches out to comfort his love, but Tyler pushes his hands away and shakes his head. His breathing is erratic, more stressed than Tate has ever seen before. Tyler is all charisma and sarcasm, cocky smirks and snide comebacks. He’s never sad. He’s never vulnerable. Tate knows that it’s there, though. Tate knows that Tyler feels all the bubbling rage and depression that Tate is in therapy for. He just didn’t think he would ever get to see it firsthand like this. 

 

“What am I  _ doing _ ? There’s no redemption arc for people like me, Tate. I don’t get to be in love. I’ll hurt you, like I hurt everyone. Like he hurt people, like Dahmer hurt people, like Gacy. Eric and Dylan. All of them are listed as sociopaths, and you know that’s what I am, right? Diagnosed. I’m no fucking better than them, I’m just a news report waiting to happen.”

 

“Do you  _ want _ to hurt people?” Tate asks. He feels on edge, unsure of how to help the boy who never lets him see what’s going on. 

 

“No!” The word is partnered with the dam breaking down to release a tsunami tide of tears. “I’m tired of hurting like this. I can’t feel anything. Oh my god, I don’t deserve to be in love.”

 

Tate takes a deep breath in, watching Tyler shake and cause a scene. He decides to disregard Tyler’s adversity to touching, taking the boy in by the shoulder and holding him close. Tyler seems to give in, collapsing as he hides his face in Tate’s chest. Tate can hear how hard he’s trying to be quiet, which hurts twice as much. He strokes the back of Tyler’s box-dyed hair, his hand rubbing against the nape of the boy’s neck. 

 

Tate is standing at the vault door of Tyler’s emotional damage, staring right into the gates of hell as they slowly undo every single padlock that the boy has bolted in to make sure nobody ever entered the dark recesses of his mind. Now, here Tate is, being let into the vault as it swings open. 

 

“Listen, baby,” Tate says. “I don’t know if you deserve it. I don’t know if  _ I  _ deserve it. But we deserve each other, and you know that’s true. I deserve you, and you deserve me. Whether or not that’s love… I’m not sure. I’d like to think so, but we’re just kids. Aren’t you always the one saying that we have each other for now, and that’s all that matters? Fuck the future. Be with me, here, in the present. Who cares if you’re a sociopath? I happen to think apathy is hot.”

 

As Tate speaks, he can feel the boy’s breathing slowly even out between his arms. Tyler’s sobs come to a mute halt, but his tiny little fists still clench around the fabric of Tate’s shirt. The books they’re surrounded by hold all their secrets, tears and whispers trapped between genres. 

 

Tyler is quiet for quite some time, but Tate doesn’t stop comforting him. Soft, gentle strokes, like one would touch a scared bunny. Tate’s got feather-soft wing tips, creating a cocoon around the two. 

 

“I understand you, Tate,” Tyler eventually whispers. He lifts his head up from the boy’s chest, so Tate cups his soft cheeks and strokes his thumbs against the tear streaks, trying to erase them from his lover’s skin. Tyler’s eyelashes clump together in thick formations, little triangles of stained silk framing sad emerald eyes. Tyler smiles, sad and damaged, and he whispers “But I don’t think you understand me.”

 

“I do,” Tate nods. Then, he shakes his head and corrects himself, “I want to. Just let me.”

 

Tyler searches those darkened brown eyes, the sunlight coming in from the library shifting the usual black coals to a bit of the rusty red that few people get to see this close. He smiles again, much sadder than the first, and he just places his head back on Tate’s chest again. 

 

Tate isn’t sure what that means, but it feels a little bit like the beginning of a goodbye. 

 

[***]

 

Tate hears his bedroom door creak open, so he looks over his shoulders at his boyfriend trying to enter as quietly as possible. He smiles, setting his pen down on the desk, and turning in his swivel chair to face his incoming lover. 

 

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Tate smiles, holding his arms out. 

 

Tyler doesn’t hesitate to walk around the bed and sit down in Tate’s lap, pulling his legs up in the chair with them and wrapping around the blonde like a clingy monkey. Tyler smiles, presses a kiss to Tate’s forehead, and says “I wanted to see you. Addie let me in.”

 

As Tate opens his mouth to respond, he’s interrupted by the sound of his newest pet chiming in with all her delighted little chirps. Tate looks over Tyler’s shoulder to where her cage is perched on top of a stack of books, and he commands “Annabel. Hush.”

 

The bird quiets down obediently, plucking at some of the feathers beneath her wings. Tyler lifts his eyebrows at how well she listens, giving Tate an impressed smile. “Wow. You named her Annabel?”

 

“Yeah,” Tate grins. “Like that one Edgar Allan Poe poem.”

 

“And neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee,” Tyler recites familiarly. 

 

“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee, and the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee,” Tate continues without hesitation. He’s read this poem numerous times, craving to feel that love that Poe wrote so passionately about. “Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride. In her sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea.”

 

Tyler kisses him afterwards, head over heels in love with the only person to take poetry as seriously as he does. When he pulls away, he asks “Annabel is a beautiful name, Tate.”

 

“That poem reminds me of what it feels like to be in love,” Tate says quietly. He stands up, his hands hooking beneath Tyler’s thighs so that he can carry the smaller one over to his bed. “So do you, and since you got me the bird, I think it’s a beautiful token of our love.”

 

Tyler lies down in the messy sheets, his arm reaching up to turn on the radio Tate keeps on the shelf above his head. As he tunes it to find a fitting station, he says “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved that has mattered this much to me.”

 

A fleeting thought, one said in passing while distracted by another action. But Tate still hears it, he hears it louder than any intrusive thought he’s ever had. 

 

“I used to think that…” he trails off, his hands settling on Tyler’s stomach as he sits cross legged next to the boy. “I used to think that Violet was the only light in my life. I’d never know love again, or find a candle flame flickering to gravitate towards. But you’re… you’re brighter than her, bunny. So much brighter.”

 

“Your eyes have just adjusted to the darkness,” Tyler shakes his head, stroking the back of Tate’s hair. “Come on. I brought needles over, we can give each other tattoos.”

 

“Just like we talked about?” Tate’s eyes light up.

 

“Yeah,” Tyler says, then followed by “I only have red ink. Is that okay?”

 

“It’ll look like blood,” Tate grins, “Cool.”

 

So Tyler takes all the health precautions to make sure that Tate doesn’t get an infection, and as he holds a lighter beneath the tip of his needle, he asks “You sure you want it on your hand, dude? It’s gonna fuckin’ hurt like hell.”

 

“I want my mom to see,” Tate nods, holding his hand out over his boyfriend’s thigh. “She’ll totally freak.”

 

Tyler proceeds to stick the needle into the back of Tate’s hand, the poke of the skin only heard by the one who has been trained to listen to it from the other various tattoos he’s given himself. This is Tate’s first, and Tyler almost feels a little bad about marking the boy so permanently. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, he’s already tainted Tate. There’s no going back, they’ve passed the point of no return. 

 

“Does it hurt?” Tyler looks up, wiping the swollen skin with an alcohol swab. 

 

“Not really,” Tate shakes his head, though he knows that there’s an former self-harmer hidden inside him that thinks he deserves this pain. “Did yours hurt?” 

 

Tyler shrugs, “I guess.”

 

With Tate’s free hand, he rubs Tyler’s leg to comfort the boy who has the same thought process as him. 

 

After Tyler goes over the tattoo several times, he wipes all of the excess ink off and rubs lotion on it before covering it up with a bandaid. Tate asked for a simple tattoo, just a thumbs up to remind him that things are good even when his own hand refuses to make that happy gesture. It’s small, but it’s an important reminder for him. 

 

Tyler doesn’t care what Tate puts on him. He says his body doesn’t matter, and that Tate could tattoo a dick if he wants. Tyler wouldn’t mind anything, he says there’s no sentimental attachment to his skin suit. Tyler tells Tate, “This body is just a rental. My true form has horns and seven arms. Feel free to ruin this skin as much as you want.”

 

Despite all of this, Tate is careful about how he inserts the sewing needle into his lover’s skin. He’s afraid to hurt Tyler, constantly looking up to check if the boy winces or lets out a sound of anguish. Tyler’s face remains blank, only changing when a song comes on the radio that he likes. 

 

So Tate sits and pokes into the skin over and over again, making small talk about the little things, like the new bookstore opening up on fifteenth street. It’s nice to just… exist like this. To exist in someone else’s company. Tate imagines the two of them as old men doing just this, except not in his mother’s dismal home. He imagines they moved into some tiny house some place quieter, some place colder, so Tate could see the way the leaves change and decay in the fall.  

 

Tyler lies on his back, his legs wrapped around Tate’s waist. Tate wipes the ink off of the skin, the surface bleeding where he’s been poked. Tate kisses the tattooed chest, rubbing his boyfriend’s torso up and down. “I’m done.”

 

Tyler sits up, looking down at the inflamed area Tate’s been poking into, his hollow chest creating a perfect frame for the piece of art the blonde curated. 

 

“It’s a heart,” Tate explains, rubbing his thumb over the red, dotty outline. “To remind you that you’re always loved. Always.” 

 

Tyler smiles, but he doesn’t bother putting lotion or bandaids over it. Maybe he needs that reminder, maybe he just doesn’t care about his body that much. Instead, he puts a hand on Tate’s chest and asks “By you?”

 

“For as long as I live,” Tate nods, Annabel chirps. 

 

Tyler smiles and looks back down at the tattoo as much as he can without dislocating his neck, and he doesn’t put his shirt back on for the rest of the night so that he can reach up and touch it every few minutes. Tate notices each time, his eyes picking up on the slight movement out of his peripheral vision, and he feels his heart warm each time. 

 

Now, they’re bound eternally by the markings on their skin and the feelings in their chest. 

 

[***]

 

August comes faster than July can protest, and before Tate knows it, the streets are overrun with kids going back to school. He feels anxious each time that a group of middle schoolers walk by him and snicker, but he feels particularly uncomfortable going in public with Tyler and seeing the way that he gets unaccepting stares. 

 

Tonight, they’re meeting a bit later than usual, when the world is already asleep and they can run the streets unbothered. So in love, the world is theirs when the clock strikes one a.m. 

 

As requested, Tate jogs up to the beach by his house. He’s hated this beach for so long, memories of his first date with Violet tainted the scenery. He was afraid of not being able to focus on Tyler if they were to come here together, he was worried he would be too suffocated by the shadow of Her looming over it. But Tyler stands out against those shadows, like a glimmering little light that casts out any thoughts of Her that may linger. How is he supposed to make new memories if he’s spent so long running from the past?

 

Tyler is waiting, he’s always so punctual. He’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his legs bent up at the knees. 

 

“Hey there, stranger,” Tate laughs, flopping himself down next to the boy who looks brighter than the moon illuminating the waves before them. 

 

He presses his lips against Tyler’s neck, leaning up to kiss the boy’s cheek next. However, when he kisses that cheek, he feels wetness against the cheekbone. A familiar salt, a taste that Tate can’t forget. 

 

“Hey, what’s wrong? Come on, hey,” Tate tilts Tyler’s head aside, seeing the way those eyes sparkle in the moonlight. Not from happiness, but from the sadness they’re filled with. 

 

Tate’s chest constricts, and he starts to shake his head. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Tyler shrugs. “I’m just like this. Sad for no fucking reason. Incomplete as fuck.”

 

“You’re not incomplete,” Tate remarks, pressing a kiss to Tyler’s forehead the way the little one used to do so often. “Do you want to come home? We can watch movies. Stupid 80’s romcoms, you know, I’ll recite the lines from  _ 10 Things I Hate About You _ , just like you like!”

 

Tyler smiles a little, wiping at his face and knocking his glasses askew. Then he asks “Why do you love me? Like, seriously. I don’t really- I don’t know. I’m a lot. I’m high maintenance, and you’ve got your own problems. I’m sure it’s not particularly fun to sit and listen to me fucking cry.”

 

“You’re not high maintenance at all, my dear,” Tate kisses the top of Tyler’s head, standing up so that they can walk back to Tate’s house. He doesn’t care if Constance is up, he’s bought movies since getting with Tyler for these nights in particular. “I love being with you. All of you, even the parts that you think are incomplete. I’ll tell you this whenever you need, for as long as you need.” 

 

“You love me?” Tyler repeats, looking up at Tate. 

 

“I think I do,” Tate says with as much honesty that his body can muster. He’s never felt this way before, not even with Her. Tyler is full of a hope that goes blind in front of common sense, showing Tate a light flickering in all this darkness. A moth to a flame, a lighthouse guiding ships to shore, heaven at the end of a tunnel. He means it truthfully, and yet somehow the words don’t seem intimate enough. Tate needs more. 

 

Tyler stands up with a stunned look in his eyes that doesn’t last very long. He flashes a forced smile, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders a bit tighter to combat the cool wind. 

 

“Is that okay?” Tate asks nervously, touching Tyler’s elbow as the boy begins to walk off the edge of the shore. 

 

Tyler pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder with that distant, lost look. He is retreating into his mind, going some place that Tate can’t reach. He still smiles and says “Yeah. Sure.” 

 

[***]

 

“Did it hurt?” Tyler asks, looking over at Tate. “I went easy.”

 

“A little,” Tate rests his head down on the pillow that Tyler’s using. “But it got good after a while. You felt good.”

 

Tyler smiles just slightly, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. He says “I’m glad to hear that.”

 

Tyler’s mom is out late with her newest boy toy, giving Tate and Tyler the liberty to finally show each other what it feels like to become one. Tyler went easy, nice and slow for the apprehensive gay-virgin. It was all so new to Tate, he wasn’t sure if he’d like the intrusion. 

 

But he did, of course he did. He would like anything Tyler wanted to do, ready to try anything the shorter one suggests. 

 

“Next time, you can be on top,” Tyler says, rolling over to look at Tate again. His eyes linger along Tate’s exposed shoulders, saying “Would you like that?”

 

“Yeah,” Tate nods, not worried about his incompetence at all. “Of course. Anything.”

 

Tyler smiles and leans forward, kissing Tate’s neck sloppily. It takes Tate a moment to realize that Tyler isn’t just kissing it, he’s marking it. Tate lifts his jaw up, extending his neck to give Tyler a bit of a more clear canvas. Tyler’s mouth works in mysterious ways, bringing all the blood to the bruised surface of Tate’s skin. 

 

“TJ,” Tate exhales, his hand on the back of Tyler’s mess of hair. “Hey.”

 

“Hmm,” Tyler hums against Tate’s skin, moving up to leave another mark closer to Tate’s jaw. 

 

“I think I love you,” Tate says, remembering the way the air on the beach smelled the first time he said it. He wants a response now, he wants to hear it back. 

 

“You  _ think _ ?” Tyler repeats, kissing Tate’s jaw softly. 

 

“No, no,” Tate sighs at the action, moving his hand up to cup the back of Tyler’s neck. “I  _ know.  _ I’m in love with you.” 

 

Tyler stops kissing Tate, looking at Tate’s eyes to search for any sort of clue that would indicate the blonde is joking. Unfortunately, Tate is as serious as he can be, so Tyler shifts his attention towards the window that keeps the storm away from them. Rain droplets reflect in the hazy green of Tyler’s eyes, those pupils filled with dark clouds that don’t seem to be coming from outside. 

 

Tate spots the red heart tattooed below Tyler’s collarbone, but it looks different this time. There’s a jagged line tattooed through the original faded design, a heart once whole now shattered into two pieces. Never to be reunited.  

 

“What happened here?” Tate asks, tracing his finger along the tattoo. 

 

Tyler doesn’t look to see what Tate’s touching, he already knows. He quotes a song that he hasn’t shown Tate yet, but he knows one day he will. He’ll have to. “You are a broken heart tattoo I’ll have forever on my chest.”

 

Tate is silent for a few minutes, listening to the pitter patter ricocheting off the roof. Tyler lives on the first floor, and it’s so different for Tate to hear rain without it being accompanied by his brother stomping around in the attic. The attic leaks in some spots, Tate knows his brother likes to play in the rain. He wonders if Beau is having a better night than he is. 

 

“Do you love me too?” Tate brings his hand up Tyler’s arm, rubbing the boy’s shoulder. 

 

Tyler looks back as if he forgot Tate was there, then shakes his head with a sad, sweet smile. He shrugs his shoulders, causing Tate’s hand to fall. A clap of thunder rumbles outside the window. 

 

“I could,” he says. Tate smiles, but then Tyler looks away. “I could if I knew how to lie.”

 

The window breaks down in Tate’s mind, and he feels himself start to get lost in the storm. 

 

[***]

 

“I don’t know what it is that I’m doing wrong,” Tate says, his eyes focused out the window. “He’s… He’s getting worse. I don’t know. He won’t eat, he won’t call me, he barely lets me touch him. I don’t get it, we just- we just started dating, why is it already falling apart?”

 

He takes a deep breath, staring at the board game between him and his designated doctor. Tate doesn’t dare lift his eyes, too afraid of the judgement in his therapist’s eyes. 

 

“Do you feel as if it’s your fault?” Dr. Romello asks, making those stupid notes he always makes. 

 

“Isn’t it?” Tate brings his hands up to tug on the ends of his hair. “It’s always my fault. It’s all my fault. I-I ruined Violet, now I’m hurting him. He’s pushing me away, he’s cold, he’s distant… it’s the same, like a broken fucking record. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Something’s wrong with me.” 

 

There’s a silence where the therapist doesn’t deny Tate’s accusations. After a minute ticks by, he simply states “Is Tyler a replacement?”

 

The implication alone sets a fury ablaze in Tate that he hasn’t felt in months. His anger has been gone, missing, for ages, and to feel it burst back in unannounced like a wrecking ball tearing down all the walls he’s been trying to rebuild feels like his skin is caught in the middle of destruction. 

 

“He’s not my fucking rebound!” Tate raises his voice, standing to his feet. “I love him! He might be the only god damn person on this shitshow of a planet to  _ believe  _ in me! That’s- That’s more than you can say, and you’re my  _ therapist.  _ I pay you to believe in me, yet-“

 

“Then, do you think you are Tyler’s rebound?” 

 

It’s a simple question, one that has no weight to it in the context of their conversation. But it hits Tate. It sinks in hard, causing all the blood in his body to just drop to the balls of his feet. His ankles buckle, so he falls back onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling as he loses all feeling in the left side of his face. 

 

“Tate,” his therapist calls, but the voice sounds distant and far away. “Tate, look at me.”

 

Tate lifts his head up, but the blood all rushes back far too quickly and gives him vertigo. 

 

“I’m going to prescribe Ativan. It’s an anxiety-reducing medication. It should help with your racing thoughts.”

 

That’s the end of the session. No comfort, no words of advice, no solution. Just another prescription added to Tate’s evergrowing medicine cabinet. Little blue and red capsules, peach colored tablets, pills to make his brain chemicals balance out again. 

 

None of them seem to be working anymore. 

 

[***]

 

Tate shivers, some of the cold air bothering his skin. It’s August, a week before Tyler’s birthday, there’s no reason it should be  _ this  _ cold. 

 

Maybe it’s their location. Tate has never been one to easily scare, but any house with the haunted legacy as famous as the one they’re currently standing in is enough to put anybody on edge. Not Tyler, though. Never Tyler. He welcomes the unknown, he finds comfort in the paranormal. 

 

It was the shorter one’s idea to come explore the old Winfred mansion. Tate advised his boyfriend that perhaps it isn’t a good idea to trespass on abandoned private government property at three in the morning, but Tyler just smiled and packed his ouija board. 

 

Now, here they are, exploring a broken down home. Each floorboard creaks dangerously with the threat of breaking through, termites weakening the structure of the ancient home. Howling wind whistles through the damaged windows, causing a windchime on the front porch to sing hauntingly. Tyler holds his flashlight with his left hand, the right hand preoccupied with a handheld Sony camera. 

 

“I don’t know about this, baby,” Tate says cautiously. A clatter can be heard coming down the hall, the sound of an aluminum can rolling across hardwood flooring. Tate takes a cautious step towards Tyler; not out of fear, but out of need to protect the smaller one of the duo. “Seems dangerous. I don’t want you to get Tetanus off a rusty nail.”

 

“Don’t be such a pansy, Tate,” Tyler laughs, an ominous echo following his words. He lifts his head up towards the broken staircase, the moon coming in through a rotting hole in the roof. The light illuminates in his excited eyes, and he asks with a lustful tone “The attic? Or the basement?”

 

They both seem way too dangerous. Too many aspects and possibilities to get hurt, Tate doesn’t want Tyler to foolishly enter either of them. Quite frankly, Tate doesn’t believe in ghosts. He believes in Tyler though, so if the little one wants to lead him into an infamously haunted mansion, he has no choice but to follow. 

 

Tate wraps his arms around Tyler’s shoulders from behind, guiding the little one down the hallway. “Neither. Let’s go makeout on the kitchen floor. Seems hot.”

 

Tyler laughs, turning the tape recorder around to showcase the two of them in the night vision, Tate pressing his cheek right up against Tyler’s ruffled hair. Tyler’s grin glows brightly in the green hues of the camera, nuzzling the side of his head against Tate’s jaw. 

 

“You’re a freak, Tate Langdon,” Tyler says, letting the boy guide them down the hall. The slouching curve of his spine fits perfectly into the gap in Tate’s chest, two pieces of the same marble that Michelangelo crafted his best sculpture from. “What if we get possessed? This is how horror films start.”

 

“Well then I guess our movie will be based off a true story,” Tate leans towards the camera, trying his best to use a spooky voice. Tyler breaks that facade by laughing, so Tate turns and presses his lips against Tyler’s warm cheek over and over again.

 

In the kitchen, Tate spins his boyfriend around to pick the little one up by the waist and set him on the counter space next to a rusty sink. Broken glass and rotting food sit inside, a can of beans crawling with maggots spilling down the drain. Despite this, Tyler hooks his fingers through Tate’s belt loops and pulls the boy towards him wantingly. 

 

Tate’s hand rests against the cabinet next to Tyler’s head, his other hand cupping the side of Tyler’s cheek to keep a good grasp on him. He can hear his flashlight rolling down the counter, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is Tyler’s mouth on his and the potential of where that mouth can go. 

 

“This is so fucking hot,” Tyler moans, his mouth parted wide enough for Tate’s tongue to slip in. 

 

“Yet  _ I’m _ the freak,” Tate smiles, his teeth knocking Tyler’s. 

 

“Sh-“ Tyler pushes him off, turning his head back towards the hallway. “Did you hear that?”

 

“I didn’t hear anything,” Tate pulls Tyler back in, kissing the boy’s jaw and moving his hand down to the little thigh. 

 

“Tate, shut up, I’m serious,” Tyler puts his hand on Tate’s neck, squeezing the sides just slightly. Not a threat, but a warning. 

 

Tate looks up at his lover, seeing the moonlight come in in a way that showcases the genuine alarm on his face. He doesn’t look afraid, why would he? Tyler loves ghouls and demons and anything of the sort. What he’s worried about is getting caught. He’s not so fond on crazy serial killers. 

 

“Do you want me to go look?” Tate asks, picking his flashlight back up and smacking it against his palm to get the light working again. 

 

“Not alone!” Tyler protests, sliding off the counter to suction close to Tate’s side. “If you die, I’m going with you.”

 

“You wouldn’t run?” Tate’s hand loops through Tyler’s and the two begin venturing down the hallway towards the direction of the supposed noise. 

 

“No,” Tyler shakes his head, squeezing Tate’s hand. They step on a creaky floorboard, making the little one flinch and point his camcorder down towards the warped wood. “Would you?”

 

Before Tate can answer, the sound of the front door swinging open echoes through the entire house. The two freeze in the hallway, watching a group of flashlights beam throughout the front foyer. 

 

“Henry County PD, responding to a breaking and entering call, is anyone trespassing on this private property?” A voice booms. 

 

Tate looks down at Tyler, his eyes wide. Tyler is already staring at him, a devilish look all over his features. He smirks and whispers “We’ll both run.”

 

Tyler turns on his heel and takes off through the house, stepping on that warped wood with so much force that the floorboard breaks through and consumes his entire foot. Tate tugs on the boy, watching the splinters scrape at Tyler’s ankle as they take back off through the house. The voices of policemen can be heard behind them, so Tyler busts through the kitchen to slam the back door open. 

 

The backyard is overgrown and filled with spare junk parts, shells of rusty cars sitting abandoned in the wasteland. Tyler’s shorter legs certainly carry him faster than Tate’s do, the raven haired boy pulling on the blonde to catch up every few seconds. Tate’s arms are being lashed at with tangled weeds and vines, cockleburs clinging to his clothes with each running step he takes. 

 

Tate doesn’t feel afraid, not even when he can see the flashlights cutting up through the backyard from behind them. He’s not afraid because he can hear Tyler laughing, pointing that stupid camera back at the two of them clumsily tripping over their own feet. The sound vibrates through the dead of the night, the witching hour stirring with spirits and magic that come from the darling love of Tate’s life. 

 

They hit a chain link fence, and Tyler starts to hook his fingers through when Tate spots a curling corner of it creating a gap just big enough for his tiny rabbit to fit through. 

 

“Tyler, hey, Ty,” Tate lifts his boy up by the hips, pulling him down from where he was scaling the fence. The cops voices are scattered through the backyard, but the two boys are mostly hidden behind the overgrown bushes that line the fencing. 

 

Tate shoves Tyler towards the fence, holding back some of the wiring to open up the entrance a bit. His boyfriend crawls through, resurfacing on the other side unscathed. However, when Tate starts to come through, his size causes his flannel shirt to snag on the exposed wire and tear loudly. 

 

“Come on baby, don’t worry, come on,” Tyler waves him through, his camera and flashlight balanced in one hand. As soon as Tate gets through to the other side, Tyler’s hand finds his to keep them united as they break out into another run. 

 

“You bought me this shirt,” Tate complains with burning lungs. He used to run for track, but Tyler takes his breath away. 

 

“I’ll buy you another if we don’t get arrested tonight,” Tyler promises. 

 

The pasture they’re running through heads straight into a cornfield, which Tate’s common sense says to avoid at all costs. Again, he’s seen horror films, he knows what could happen if he were to enter one. He’s not putting Tyler in that much danger. 

 

Tyler, however, pulls the pair straight towards the cornfield. No hesitation, just goes straight towards the most dangerous solution. Born and raised in the Midwest, Tate supposes. Not much else to do in small towns besides get drunk out in fields like this. 

 

Tyler seems to know the exact path through the cornfield to avoid getting lost in the maze of maize. Tate follows blindly, mostly because he doesn’t care even if they were to get lost. His laughter doesn’t die down, not once, for he has never had more fun than when running from all the dangers with his dearly beloved by his side. 

Tyler finally slows to a walk, holding corn stalks aside for Tate to pass through without trouble. A dry patch opens up, and Tyler takes this opportunity to sit down in the small oval shaped patch of dirt. 

 

Tate sits down next to him, holding the boy’s face up to the moonlight to make sure there aren’t any injuries. A few scratches here and there from the overgrowth, but nothing too serious. He lets out a breath, tries to ease his racing heart, and lies back to look up at the white freckles on navy blue skin. The moon is a mole, large and swollen. She sings songs of sadness to those who listen. 

 

Tyler rests his head down on Tate’s stomach, so the man begins to run his fingers through the sweaty ebony hair. 

 

“You ran,” Tate says, smiling at the way Tyler closes the camcorder in his hands, turning his flashlight off. His hands are covered in dirt, but so are Tate’s. 

 

There’s a sullen silence, one that makes it hard to believe that Tyler was laughing and overflowing with joy just a few moments before. 

 

Then, as if the night’s been ruined within the one second it took to flip whatever switch in Tyler’s mind, he says with a departing tone “It’s the only thing I know how to do.” 

 

[***]

 

Tyler’s having another rough night. 

 

They seem to be more frequent now that his birthday has passed. He didn’t want to do anything for it, he just wanted to spend the day in the library, and so they did. Tate offered for him to top in their intercourse that night, but Tyler shrugged and said he didn’t feel like it. He hasn’t felt like it for weeks now. 

 

He hasn’t been feeling anything for weeks. 

 

He’s getting worse with eating, barely touching the food that Tate brings by. He doesn’t leave his room much, either. Tate’s had to crawl the rose trellis to get to Tyler’s room every single night because the little one doesn’t have the energy to leave. The bad days are becoming the normal; less good days in between, more bad playing on repeat for a week at a time. 

 

Tonight’s a bad one. Or, the ending of a bad one. The breakdown has already subsided, Tate’s already comforted him about the redemption arcs and worrisome future that always seems to be bothering him. They went through their whole routine, a little dance that they’ve perfected at this point in time. Always the same moves; take the scissors away so he can’t cut his hair, block the desk drawer off so he can’t take apart a box cutter for the razor inside, twist the caps back on the pill bottles he keeps under his bed. Hold him until he’s done shaking. Let the music play real loud. 

 

Tonight, he’s had a particular song on repeat. He keeps clenching up during certain verses, his head on Tate’s chest. When his body starts to shake again, Tate tightens his arms around his boyfriend just a little bit more. 

 

“Listen,” Tyler finally says. He lifts his head up, moving up on the bed so that he’s hovering right above Tate. “Listen to the words.”

 

Tate hates to see Tyler cry. It might be one of the worst sights. His nose gets red, his eyes get puffy, and he tries to force this very sad smile that just makes his entire appearance more heartbreaking than it already is. 

 

Tate’s hand rests against the side of Tyler’s face, his thumb stroking some of the streaks marking down his boyfriend’s flushed cheeks. Tyler lets out a shaky breath, tears welling up at the action and dripping down onto Tate’s face. 

 

Tyler says in time with the song, a perfect harmony of heartbreak, “I totally get you, I was a bird cage, and you were meant to fly.” 

 

He leans down and presses his lips to Tate’s, his dampened eyelashes fluttering against Tate’s cheeks like fans of mist kissing away any worry the boy might have. A soft, desperate kiss. One that begs to be more than it is. 

 

That’s the last time that Tyler kisses Tate. The last time they hug, the last time they listen to music, the last time they talk. The last time for everything, really, because Tyler has Tate leave shortly after, not even mentioning the fact that he’s not going to allow the blonde to come back. 

 

Tate’s not sure if this boy’s an angel or not. His halo has too many screws loose. 

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate stands outside the front door of the Sella residence, staring at the dark mahogany of the front door hidden behind a screen. There’s a brass doorknob, one that’s well worn from how often it’s been grabbed, and Tate likes to imagine that his heart would resemble something like that as well. 

 

He rings the doorbell once again, hoping that there’s a different response this time. He’s stopped by everyday this week, but he’s been left out in the cold each time. September is turning brown faster than a fruit that was left out to rot. The mold of winter is creeping up on him faster than he’d like to admit. 

 

The door swings open, revealing a stout older woman with a cigarette placed between her grim lips. “What d’you want?”

 

Tate’s never actually met Tyler’s mom, so he wasn’t exactly prepared for what to say if anybody else answered the door besides Tyler himself. 

 

“Oh, um, hello, uh, Mrs. Sella.  _ Ms.  _ Sella, sorry,” he trips and fumbles over each of his words. “I was just wondering if, uh, if Tyler’s in? I see his car in the driveway and I haven’t heard from him in nearly two weeks and I was just wondering if, uh… Well, I gave him some time to cool down, I don’t know what it was that I did, but I left him alone. He seemed to want that. But now it’s been, uh, two weeks and I was sort of wondering if I could at least  _ talk  _ to him-“

 

“Who are you?” Tyler’s mom cuts the rambling short, narrowing her irritated eyes. 

 

“Oh, Tate,” he holds his hand out, hoping she’ll unlock the screen door and shake it. He shifts nervously on the front porch, listening to the way that the floorboards creak the way they did at the Winfred mansion. He looks down at his shoes, wondering if Tyler’s ankle ever healed up from the way the broken wood tore his skin up. “Tate Langdon. I’m Tyler’s… uh… his friend.”

 

“I’m sure you are,” she responds in a sick tone, shaking her head. “I don’t know what you think you two have got going on, kid, but don’t you come back here bothering me about some sad story.”

 

The recollection of all of Tyler’s attempts to avoid this topic come back. He fears his mom, and now Tate can see why. 

 

“I’m sorry, miss, I just,” Tate takes a deep breath and looks towards the gate that separates the backyard. He’d have to hop that gate in order to climb in through Tyler’s window, but he’s not sure if it’s appropriate for that or not. His nerves won’t even let him quit shaking for more than a moment. “Could you please tell him that I stopped by? And that I’m sorry for whatever it is that I did wrong. I suppose I should know what I did, but tell him that I don’t, and that I’m sorry, and that I miss him. So terribly. Could you please tell him that I love him? More than Violet. He’ll understand what that means, I just need him to know that so that he knows somebody does, and somebody always will. Please. Tell him that he’s still wanted.”

 

Tate finishes this off by taking in a deep breath, then turns on his heel and bounds down the porch steps to put as much distance between him and that confession of vulnerability as he possibly can. The sidewalk seems to slow him down, the leaves starting to fall and decay all around him. He doesn’t think autumn is that pretty anymore. 

 

Tyler’s mom watches the kid disappear down the street, then shakes her head and shuts the door. She makes sure to lock it, returning to her position on the couch. 

 

At the top of the staircase, Tyler stands up from where he was perching, listening to the whole conversation. The boy wipes at the tears wetting his cheeks with the back of his hand, climbing up the rest of the staircase to retreat to his bedroom. 

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate steps over a fallen branch, his mind running circles on which path of vines to take. He can’t remember how to get to Misty’s cottage, but he’s not going to give up until he finds a way. 

 

The sky is hazy and pink, remnants of orange leaving splotchy kisses all over the horizon hidden behind the thick trees Tate is immersed in. He notices a patch of mushrooms growing from the moss at the base of a tree, so he follows the fungi until he sees cobblestone steps opening up into the familiar swampy home. 

 

Her lights are off, none of the charming, whimsical fairy lights illuminating the dying garden. Her shack looks different in the fall, there’s less life to make it feel homely. 

 

Tate knocks on the door, though he can hear Fleetwood Mac playing from inside. He’s not sure if he can be heard over the pounding music, but as he raises his hand to knock again, the music slows to a stop and the door creaks open. 

 

“It’s me, Tate,” Tate introduces himself softly. 

 

The door opens all the way now, revealing a very surprised Misty. Her smile is bigger than any Tate’s ever seen before, her nose a shade of pink that looks as if she’s been crying. The woman holds her arms up, all of her chunky, crowded jewelry cluttering all over her arms and wrists. 

 

“Tate!” She exclaims with her southern drawl, pulling him in for a hug. “You came back! Now isn’t this just the most loveliest of surprises… oh, do come in for a dance! My sweetest Stevie is just so talented, don’t you think?”

 

Tate hardly listens to anything that doesn’t have a line about wanting to die, but Misty pulls on his hand so impatiently that he allows her to sweep him into the cottage with the promise of a waltz. 

 

Misty seems to raise the volume without even touching the knob, a mystic energy filling the entire cottage to welcome Tate wholeheartedly. She doesn’t get visitors often, she wants to make the most of what she can get. 

 

“I just think this song is so dreamy,” Misty sways back and forth, her hands entwined with Tate’s in preparation for a formal spin. “Her words, the meaning… she’s the most powerful woman alive.”

 

Tate smiles, feeling a little bit of ease in his mind knowing that Misty is always going to be peculiar Misty. Lost in her own world, isolated from society. Perhaps this is how Tate should be living so that he does not encounter any more heartbreak in his life. 

 

“I wanted to talk to you about something, Misty,” Tate twirls the girl, the fringes on her clothes flaring out in every direction as she spins. 

 

“Not while Stevie’s on,” the girl requests, but then stops with an amused smile. “Who am I kidding, Stevie’s always on.”

 

Tate smiles, but then his attitude changes. His face feels like stone, and it’s almost as if Misty could feel the shift too because she brings a hand up to her chest. 

 

“Oh, dear, you seem to be holding so much negative energy,” she hovers her hand above Tate’s bicep, like she’s reading what’s beneath the surface. “Is everything alright with Tyler?” 

 

“How did you know about that?” Tate inquires, speculating about all that witchy nonsense that Tyler was into. He looks around, taking notice of all the tiny little offerings to various gods she has scattered throughout her decor. Tate’s a bit of a skeptic, but right now, he needs anything he can take. 

 

“I can read your mind,” Misty wiggles her fingers, then walks off into the direction of her kitchen. “Or, he told me. Do you take sugar in your tea?”

 

“None,” Tate remembers how he would always argue with Tyler that black coffee tastes the best, and the same rules go for tea. The memory echoes in his chest, which feels a bit too hollow to carry on. 

 

Misty carries out two mugs, offering one to the boy. He accepts it graciously, taking a seat in the same chair that he received his birthday gift in. Seems like ages ago that Tyler was confessing just how much he likes Tate. 

 

“What did he say?” Tate asks, wrapping his hands around the mug. 

 

“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Misty shakes her head, the beads on her headband jingling with each movement.

 

“Of course,” Tate nods, expecting nothing less. “Because he won’t talk to me, you know. We were in love and now he won’t talk to me. I don’t know what I did, I call him every night, leave flowers on the porch. Nothing seems to be good enough and I don’t know  _ why. _ I just want him to  _ talk  _ to me again. I… I miss him.”

 

Misty smiles sadly, and she says “My boy… Perhaps you haven’t done anything. Tyler may just need some time to realign the wars he’s waging in his mind before he can show you the love you deserve.”

 

“Did he tell you that?” Tate asks. 

 

“Well, no, but-“

 

“Exactly,” Tate sighs. “I don’t deserve love, I don’t deserve anything.”

 

Misty is quiet for a few moments, letting the conversation settle. She reaches out and overlaps Tate’s hand with hers, finally saying “I can help.”

 

So, Tate lies down in Misty’s bed like the woman instructs, and lets her rub a bit of some type of leaf all across his forehead. He grows tired quickly, his body feeling drowsy and affected by the words she’s whispering under her breath. He’s never had reason to believe in magic, but perhaps tonight Misty will convert his mindset. 

 

Tate wakes up a few minutes later, not remembering falling asleep. He’s awoken by the prominent memories surfacing in his mind, so many insignificant details that he didn’t even care to remember until now. 

 

He remembers playing scrabble with his little writer, the game coming to a fast end as the two competed against one another’s vast vocabulary. He remembers Tyler stealing flowers off of graves to give to Tate, how he ripped the stems off of each one and entwined them with Tate’s curls. He remembers how Tyler used to pick through his salads and feed the parts he didn’t want to Tate, then complained about how Tate tasted like eggs when they would kiss later. He remembers the Fourth of July, and how they sat on top of a hill collecting worms together. He remembers the way Tyler danced with Beau all through the living room while Constance was at the store, then he tried on Addie’s dresses and had a fake tea party with the girl. Tyler was always so good with his siblings, they adored him. Tate adored him. All these memories rise up like flames engulfing his mind, painful and searing, causing tears to start flowing involuntarily. 

 

“I don’t- I don’t understand,” Misty climbs on top of Tate, pressing her hands against his chest. “It’s not working. It  _ always  _ works. I don’t understand.”

 

Tate begins to freak out, for it all begins to feel like way too much all at once. He pushes Misty off frantically, her weight was way too heavy on his heaving chest. He stands, the pain so prominent in his mind that his body feels as if all his organs are rearranging themselves and preparing to fall out. He hits his head, trying so hard to make it all stop. He can’t cease the memories from bubbling up, the brain juice in his cranium coming to a high boil. 

 

“I don’t understand why it’s not working,” Misty stands up, hovering her hands over the space where Tate is frantically walking. “I was supposed to heal you, he wanted me to make it all stop hurting but I can’t- it’s too- it’s embedded too deeply inside, I can’t touch it.”

 

Tate stops in his tracks, his hyperventilating coming to a complete stop. He turns on his heel, looking at Misty with wide eyes. “He  _ what?” _

 

Her face falls as she looks as startled as a deer caught in headlights. Tate doesn’t ease off the gas either, he floors it. 

 

“He  _ asked  _ you to fucking take all this  _ pain _ away? And just  _ forget _ ? He- He would rather you cast some fucking  _ spell _ on me than actually break up with me?” Tate seethes. 

 

“No! No, no, no, my boy, no! He just wanted you to stop hurting, and I  _ tried _ , but-“

 

“But I’m too fucked up,” Tate finishes for her, scoffing at the end of his sentence. “Okay. Thanks. Yeah, real fuckin’ magical, Misty. This is such bullshit.”

 

Tate picks up his jacket off the back of the chair, pushing through the shack door to the blue sky that took over any pink hues that the sunset may have caused. Darkness is approaching fast, but it tends to sneak up like that when winter is coming. 

 

“Wait, Tate!” Misty chases after him, watching the way the boy is still mindful of where he steps despite being so upset. He doesn’t mistreat any stray flower or mushroom patch growing sporadically throughout her yard, showing he is a true lover no matter what the context is. “Please, at least take these. I won’t be able to rest at night unless I know you have some sort of anesthesia to mend a broken heart.”

 

Tate stops and allows her to step in front of him, opening up her ring-clad hands to show various pink crystals in many different sizes. They all have jagged edges, but shine effervescently in the dusk light. 

 

“From you or from Tyler?” Tate asks bitterly. 

 

“...From me. Sincerely. I felt a lot of pain, a lot of heartbreak, and a lot of suffering inside you. I know it may seem silly to a nonbeliever to pray over a bunch of rocks, but these are rose quartz. It’s been said to help raise your self-esteem and balance your emotions, lowering the stress and upset associated with heartbreak,” she explains, cupping her hands together to transfer the pile of crystals over to Tate’s outstretched palms. “They’re my favorite of all my little babies. They look so divine, don’t you think?”

 

Tate doesn’t see the healing energy or mystic bullshit that she does, he just sees a pile of rocks being used to cover up the lies and deceit she tried putting him through tonight. 

 

Despite this, he still forces a smile and tells her he’ll put them in his room. 

 

When Tate gets home, sneaking past his drunken mother and giving his siblings a kiss in their sleep, he begins to undress and get the dirty clothes off of his body. Misty’s house stinks of a swamp, that muddy scent lingering on Tate’s clothes for as long as possible. As he reaches to take his pants off, he feels a jagged, pointy edge of something poke against his thigh. 

 

He pulls out the handful of rocks that Misty gave him, her eyes sparkling like the moon. She believed so wholeheartedly that these would aid the incessant achings in Tate’s chest, and truthfully, he thinks he needs someone to believe in him right now. 

 

He lines the crystals up along the windowsill above his bed, the moon reflecting prisms of light around his room. Rainbows of hope, the possibility of healing. Then, as a last minute thought, he places the rock that resembles Tyler’s eyes right in the center of his little line. That emerald green looks so similar to the way Tate’s lover would often stare at him, but less sadness. The rock is just a green rock, there’s none of that misery buried deep under the lust and mystery. 

 

Even so, it reminds him fondly of how it felt to be bathing in golden hour on the beach with someone he was sure would stick around, picking rocks out of the sand just trying to find a gem. Tate did, but he found that gem in a waiting room back in January. He didn’t need the beach for that at all. 

 

He glances at the green rock one more time before shutting his lights off, imagining how it would look to see Tyler’s eyes one last time before falling asleep. 

 

He doesn’t have bad dreams that night. 

 

[***]

 

“I understand you’ve gotten close with Tyler, but I can’t release any personal files about any of my clients,” Doctor Romello’s voice fills the silence of the room.

 

Sometimes, the quiet moments are almost deafening. Tate can’t bear to be alone in the stillness of sound anymore. 

 

“Please, you don’t understand, this is an emergency,” Tate begs, sitting forward on the very edge of the couch. “I think he might kill himself.”

 

“Tate, if you think someone is a danger to themselves or the people around them, it’s my duty as your therapist to report that-“

 

“No! You can’t!” Tate bursts out in a frenzy, “You  _ know  _ how he is, he’ll shut me out forever if you do that. I’ll lose everything. I’ll lose  _ him.”  _ There’s a pause for a moment, and then Tate says “... _ Everything _ .” 

 

The therapist in the room is silent for a moment, which leaves Tate in those aforementioned quiet little gaps that he despises so much. He needs something to numb the inbetween parts, something to make him feel like he’s not so alone on this shitrock. 

 

After what feels like ages, Romello finally speaks up again. “Tyler and I never really talk. I’m sure you’ve noticed with how close you two have gotten, that he doesn’t open up much. We mainly just listen to music.”

 

“You listen to music?!” Tate repeats, his voice raising along with his blood pressure. “He’s sitting there  _ crying _ out for help; he’s been getting worse and worse, he stopped coming to his sessions with you, and now he won’t even  _ talk  _ to me, and you’re telling me all you do is listen to  _ music _ ?”

 

“Tate, what you have to understand is that Tyler may not speak it verbally, but he  _ shows  _ it. He shows you what he’s feeling, you just have to learn to listen a little better,” the doctor explains as he scribbles his stupid little notes on that clipboard of his. Tate hates that damn clipboard with all of his being. “We listen to music and he tells me what he’s feeling and what he’s going through via the lyrics of whatever song he brings in for that day.”

 

“Oh,” Tate responds. It all begins to make sense. 

 

Towards the end, all Tyler ever wanted to do was listen to music. But not just vinyls or CD’s, he had to specifically search for each song he wanted to play in order to tweak and customize the lyrics to his own liking and standards. 

 

He wasn’t just filling the silence like Tate thought he was, he was talking. All that time spent napping off upset stomachs and troubled moods wasn’t just some background noise for Tyler, he was giving himself over to Tate, who simply ignored any song that wasn’t something he recognized firsthand. 

 

“I have to-“ Tate stands up abruptly. “I have to go.”

 

“But Tate, your sessions lasts another-“

 

Tate doesn’t hear the last of that sentence after he shuts the office door behind him, but he’s pretty sure he can figure out how it ends. He hurries down the hall and past the secretary’s desk, pushing his way out into the lobby where he met the parasite eating his way through his lovesick brain. 

 

He needs to get back home. Not his house where his cocksucking mother awaits him, no, the one that he built inside a five foot something boy with hands as sad as the unforgiving sea. Those gentle fingertips would sometimes drown Tate, and truthfully, Tate would just allow those tides to overcome him. 

 

He needs his anchor, but maybe Tyler was never his anchor to begin with. He’s afraid he put too much pressure on a boy that is just as drowned as he is. Tyler was never his anchor, the two are both lost at sea. Tate is leaving the shore to deep dive headfirst for whatever the unforgiving ocean will give him. 

 

[***]

 

Tate arrives early so that he can beat Tyler’s usual punctuality. He inhales the scent of the coffee shop, a familiar smell that provides him with some level of comfort after he’s gone so long without visiting. 

 

Tate left a note beneath the windshield wiper of his boyfriend’s beat up car, one asking to meet him for coffee so that they can talk things out. Tate had explained that he understands now, and he just wants to see Tyler. 

 

He’s not sure if his beloved ever received the note, but he will still sit at their favorite booth for hours if he needs to. If Tyler decides to show up, he wants to be here waiting. Prepared for anything. 

 

What he was not prepared for, however, is the shy barista behind the counter who clears her throat across the empty coffee shop. 

 

Tate lifts his eyes, eyeing her bleach blonde hair growing in darkened roots. It’s messy in all the right ways, as if she’s taken inspiration from Courtney Love. He thinks she’s the exact type of girl that he would be interested in if he wasn’t so hellbent on one boy in particular. He looks back down at the table and tries to imagine what Tyler will look like when he comes. If he comes. If. 

 

“Excuse me?” The girl speaks up, clearing her throat again. Tate looks over at her curiously, then sweeps the shop to see if there’s anybody else she could be talking to. “Would you happen to be Tate?” 

 

His blood runs icy cold as the trepidation of anxiety drips into him. He stands up, approaching the counter that the girl is nervously shifting behind. She must be new, she doesn’t have a name tag yet. 

 

“Depends on who’s asking,” Tate responds. 

 

“I’m supposed to, um, give this to you?” she’s not sure of her words. The girl holds up a folded piece of paper that he wasn’t able to see beforehand. “A boy came in and left it for someone named Tate.”

 

Tate leans in a bit, looking at the paper in her hands. Sure enough, penned on the outside of the folds is his own name in such familiar handwriting. Tate politely holds his hand out, asking for the note that’s potentially sealing his fate. 

 

“He also said to tell you that it’s not the end of the world,” she stumbles over her words. “He was kinda weird. He gave me twenty dollars and said you could get anything off the menu.”

 

This sounds like a goodbye. 

 

Tate’s brows turn downwards as he clenches the paper in his hands. Why would Tyler stop by to leave a note? Why wouldn’t he just wait and talk to Tate? And to  _ bribe _ the barista?

 

“I have to go,” Tate shakes his head. “Keep the money… thank you for your troubles. I’m not hungry.”

 

Tate leaves quickly before she can say anything else to imply the conclusion that Tate is already aware of, he just doesn’t want to hear it from someone else. He wants to hear it, or read it, from Tyler’s pen directly. He stands outside in the alleyway between the coffee shop and a florist boutique as he unfolds the paper, preparing himself for the first noble war he’s ever lost. 

 

_ Dearly beloved,  _

 

_ What we had was incredibly real and raw and painful but so wonderfully pleasant. I used to wake up excited to be here breathing because it meant that I got to see your face. Now, I can’t remember what it felt like to be so in love with being alive, or to be in love with you.  _

 

_ This is not a suicide note, nor do I want it to provoke your own. Don’t hurt over this, Tate. I just can’t do this. I can't do you. I can't be with someone like you if this is all that I am capable of becoming. I don’t know how to explain it, so I won’t. All I know for certain, more certain than my own inevitable death some day, is that I cannot be with you.   _

 

_ Not now, not in a few weeks, not in a few months, not ever. So don’t wait, because I can't be with you. I won’t. I was given a shot at redemption and I proved that I do not deserve it, so I will not earn it. Please don’t call me anymore, don’t come to my house, don’t bother my friends. What we shared was between you and I only, so this breakup should be treated just the same.  _

 

_ You were great, I wasn’t.  _

_ Tyler.  _

 

_ p.s. I give your therapist a free pass to look at this note. I’m seeing a new therapist, so you can talk about me as much as you want without conflict of interests. Lord knows you’ll need to.  _

 

Tate reads the words over and over to make sure he’s gotten everything right, and then calmly folds the paper up to slip inside his pocket. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t mourn, he doesn’t scream. 

 

He feels as if everything has been ripped straight out of him, all core emotions just slaughtered at the stem. He feels an overwhelmingly blissful wave of apathy overcome his usually busy brain chemicals. A numbness to the world. 

 

Tate has given up trying, there’s no point in being upset. It won’t change anything. He’s never going to get that happiness that he thought he had, he’s just delusional and sick in the head for thinking that he could have. 

 

He’s done trying to be happy at this point, but he’s done being sad as well. Tate thinks that maybe he’s just _done_ _being._ He doesn’t want to exist on a world that could be so unforgiving. Happiness is fleeting, only misery remains. 

 

There will be no redemption arc for Tate, just an abrupt end to a tragic tale.  

 

[***] 

 

There’s a feeble knock on his door, which Tate ignores. He doesn’t want to talk to anybody, he just wants to lie here and rot. He’ll decompose by spring, allowing the maggots to consume what’s left of his rotten meat. 

 

“Tate?” He hears from behind him. The door opens up, creaking on its hinges. Tate listens closely to see if she’s alone, but he quickly identifies the sounds of his brother’s heavy footsteps coming in behind as well. 

 

“Go away, Addie,” Tate mumbles into his pillowcase, staring hard at the candle burning on his desk. 

 

“I don’t want to,” the girl says objectively, her funny little way of talking providing a bit of comfort and familiarity to Tate. “I’m scared. I am worried about you.”

 

Beau grunts from the same direction, his breathing sending a chill up Tate’s spine. He’s not sure if he can deal with them, he’s too overstimulated to interact. Even if it is with his own siblings. 

 

“Then don’t,” Tate responds, burying his face into his pillow. 

 

There’s a silence for a moment, well,  _ near  _ silence. The record player plays so softly that it’s almost inaudible, though. He listens for their footsteps leaving, but they stay. 

 

Then, Addie turns and says “Go away, Beau. You’re freaking him out.”

 

That’s not it at all, and Tate hates that this is the impression he’s giving his brother. Beauregard lets out a sad, soft whimper, then his clubbed footsteps can be heard tromping along the floorboards as he exits. Addie remains, though, so Tate rolls over in his bed to see where she’s standing next to his dresser. 

 

“Did mom send you?” He asks sarcastically, venom lacing his words. 

 

“No!” She flusters easily, huffing. “You’re listening to the sad music again. You only listen to this sad music when you’re alone. Are you alone?”

 

“What does it look like?” Tate scoffs, but then feels a pang of guilt course through him. He sits up against the headboard, pulling a pillow into his lap so he can squeeze his arms around it. “I’m sorry, Ads. I don’t mean to be a dick.”

 

“You listened to this music after Violet broke up with you,” his sister says. 

 

He looks up, hurt by the words, but understands she doesn’t mean them. That’s one thing his mother hasn’t learned. She’s never grown accustomed to living with children who have disabilities, but Tate knows very well that not all insults are meant to be as such. 

 

“Yeah,” Tate says. “I’m alone, Addie. I’m always going to be alone.”

 

“You have me,” the girl smiles, “And Beau. He wants to play fetch out in the garden. Will you come play?”

 

He wonders how it must be for the two of them to live with a disability where they don’t know any better. Tate got one of the more psychologically damaging ones; a self aware sense of just how horrible and cruel you can be. A temper that makes it impossible to be nice. An imbalance of chemicals that never lets him have a stable emotion. Everything is either too extreme or just nothing at all. 

 

“Not now, Addie,” he says quietly. “I need to be alone. I need to learn how to be alone.”

 

Addie pauses for a few moments, trying to process her brother’s pain. She thinks hard, then says “I liked Tyler. He was fun, and he wore my dresses, and he was a pretty boy.”

 

“I liked Tyler, too,” Tate responds, squeezing his pillow. He looks up at her, the innocence and naivety of his dear sister who will never understand the pain of what he’s feeling yet still tries to. He’s grateful to have both her and Beau, he’s not sure he would be able to survive if it was just him and their eldest brother. He doesn’t even want to think of the albino. 

 

Addie smiles, to which Tate forces one back. She says “Mom is making roast for dinner.”

 

“You know I don’t eat meat,” he responds. 

 

“You just suck it,” Addie giggles in her perverted way, which Tate rolls his eyes at his sister’s foul mouth. 

 

“Go away, weirdo,” he smiles. “Let me be a total loser in peace.”

 

“You’re always a loser!” She declares, heading towards the doorway. The floorboards don’t creak as much as they do beneath Tate’s weight, so the boy closes his eyes and tries to remember the way that Tyler would dance around the room and make the hardwood beneath him sing songs of creaks and moans. Addie breaks him out of this memory by saying “ _ He _ wasn’t that great anyway.” 

 

She shuts the door behind her, so Tate lies back down and nuzzles his face into the pillow a bit to mask his shaky breaths. It’s not like he wants his siblings to see him be so miserable, but he can’t help it. 

 

_ He wasn’t that great.  _

 

Tate tries to convince himself of the lie, but no matter how many times he says the words to himself, they just don’t seem true. Each fabrication he spins, another memory surfaces of Tyler proving to be one of the most thoughtful, caring individuals to ever enter Tate’s life. 

 

He sighs, reaching over to the record player spinning vinyls beside his bed, and he raises the volume on The Smiths record just a little bit more so that he can hear the words. 

 

He’s not sure how long he’ll listen to ‘the sad music’, but at this point, it feels like an eternity. 

 

Vincent Van Gogh once said that the sadness will last forever as he was lying on his deathbed, and Tate is starting to believe that perhaps that statement rings true. 

 

[***]

 

Tate stands in front of the cork board, staring at all the little memories scattered across the wall. Receipts from dates, photo booth pictures of the two sharing kisses behind the curtain, polaroids of Tate holding flowers from a headstone. Tyler loved taking pictures, but never of himself. There’s not a lot of Tyler to look at, which is frustrating for the boy who has started to forget what the curve of his lover’s lip looked like. 

 

He knows what the eyes looked like, though. God, does he remember that. Tate steps away from the cork board, not feeling strong enough to take the pictures down just yet. His hand squeezes around the rock found on a sandy shore, the green standing out against his pale palm. Tate looks down at the pebble, an unfortunate hue that was matched on a hazy first date. 

 

He imagines the way those eyes looked when they were full of love, always looking up at Tate like they had forever together. He imagines how those eyes looked when they were filled with tears, telling him to listen to the words instead of how the song sounded. 

 

Tate’s listened. He played that song that Tyler showed him the night they shared their last kiss, and he heard all the words in a different tone than when Tyler was mouthing along to them lying on top of Tate’s chest. He listened, sure, but far too late. 

 

Tate thinks of the song, how Tyler was so fixated on the words about birdcages and flying. Tate’s mind stops somewhere else along the verses, though. All he can seem to hear is “A love that I have lost, but never could forget.”

 

Tate opens his desk drawer up top, the light gleaming against the silver blades calling his name. His arms feel hot and bumpy with scars, that desire to slice a vein being too tempting. 

 

Instead, Tate drops the rock into the drawer, then slides it shut and repositions his chair in front of it. Out of sight, out of mind. He wonders how long it will take him to forget the tint of silver along the pupils along with the rest of the boy’s face. 

 

A step towards moving on, but he’s still got miles in front of him to walk through. 

 

_ [***] _

 

Tate walks down by the beach, the shores coming up to marry the sand beneath his shoes. The moon is full, high tide is threatening to take him away. He thinks that anywhere is better than here. 

 

A memory bubbles up like the foam of the sea, the image of Tyler laughing with a sparkler in his hand on a late summer night. When he kissed Tate, he tasted just like orange soda and a bit like polo mints. Tate had burned himself on a firework that night, and Tyler healed the burn with a simple kiss from his gentle, loving lips. 

 

Tate stops walking, smacking his hand against his head. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the memory dislodge a little bit and blur around the edges, so he smacks once more with a bit more force. The memory goes away, so he sighs and relaxes once more. 

 

His eyes travel out to the dark horizon, the moon reflecting along uncertain tides. He thinks of how fast his body would decay if he were to let the waves have him, the idea of becoming fish food or a home for an oceanly organism being a bit more comforting than what he was previously thinking. 

 

He thinks that there’s got to be somewhere better, some place that hurts less than here. He hopes. He’s not sure he can handle much more of this misery. 

 

[***]

 

Months pass by, and Tate doesn’t show signs of improvement. He’s doing so poorly that Constance has ceased therapy altogether. She doesn’t pay for medication if it’s not going to work, so she’s been dealing with the mood swings of her teenage son going through withdrawals. 

 

Tonight might be the worst. 

 

Right now, Tate’s lying down on the couch, his eyes focused on the flickering television that plays old game shows. The volume is low, but it’s not as if Tate’s listening anyways. He clutches a Walkman in his hands, a mess of tangled wires wrapping around his neck to connect to the headphones covering his ears. Adelaide and Beauregard run around the house with one another, a symphony of laughter that does not penetrate the headphones projecting sad music into Tate’s mind. What he can hear, however, is the sound of his caged bird upstairs singing and wanting to be let free. She hasn’t been out of her cage in days, but Tate is too afraid to let her out in fear of losing yet another thing dear to him. The guilt of keeping something so beautiful locked up hurts him even worse. 

 

He can tell when his mom approaches by the cloud of perfume that introduces itself before she does, always accompanied by the fog of smoke she brings with her. Tate knows she’s standing behind the couch, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen. His skin is dried out from wiping at tear-streaked cheeks, his nose rubbed raw from all the snot that leaks unwillingly. 

 

Constance moves about her hands with uncertainty, trying to figure out how to approach this problem without setting off the fuse in Tate’s explosive mind. His anger has been worse lately, he’s getting violent again. Her jewelry clatters as she moves her arms, slowly reaching over to put a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“Tate, dear,” she says quietly, the television announcing a new winner for the grand prize. 

 

Tate blinks, looking up at her out of the corner of his eye. Then, he lifts one arm to move the headphone aside, giving her permission to speak. 

 

“How are you?” She asks delicately. 

 

He doesn’t respond, just blinks at the television. Constance takes a blanket off the back of the couch, draping it over her balled up son. She watches his hands rewind the tape he’s listening to, but she doesn’t know what it is that’s playing that seems to be so important to him. 

 

“I’m making your favorite for dinner,” she tries with hope, her voice tiptoeing carefully. “I thought it would be nice… to be a family again… to have you sit with us at the dinner table…”

 

Tate doesn’t eat much anymore. There’s not much  _ to  _ eat when you’re a vegetarian in a house full of meat-eaters, but the depression hole he’s sunken into only adds complications to his overall appetite. 

 

“Okay,” he says quietly, his voice croaking from hoarseness. A wave of nausea comes over his mind, and he says “I don’t feel good.”

 

“No,” Constance lets her hand grace along the outer edges of Tate’s cheeks. “That’s your body adjusting, my dear. You were taking an exceptionally large dosage, any person would be sick to their stomachs coming back to the raw reality of a world unmedicated. I’ll brew you some tea, how does that sound?”

 

Tate shrugs, sliding his headphones back over his ear to signify that he’s done talking. Constance lets out a sigh of relief, another encounter with the boy that didn’t end in a competition about who can hurt the other the most. She doesn’t  _ like  _ to upset him, he’s just so fragile these days. 

 

It was easier when he had that confidence the little fling gave him. Constance wasn’t surprised to find out that the gay relationship came to an abrupt end, however she wasn’t prepared for this extended period of moping around. The therapy did nothing, even spiritual healers who have come over to cleanse Tate’s room had no success. He’s far more broken beyond repair than he ever was with that Violet girl. 

 

The woman sighs, leaving her son to stew in his own misery as she enters the kitchen. Her hand comes along to the stack of mail hidden behind the wooden breadbox, her fingers finding a worn envelope. She pulls it out, looks at the handwriting on the front addressing her son. 

 

There’s no return address, but Constance knows who it was sent by. She’s been keeping this secret for the past two months, hoping Tate would get over whatever it is that’s eating him alive and just be able to move on with his life without a homosexual in it. 

 

At this rate, Constance doesn’t think that’s a possibility. She puts a kettle on the stove, still holding the unopened letter in her other hand. She doesn’t think she has any other choice but to reopen the wound Tate’s been trying to mend on his own. 

 

_ [***] _

 

“You need to shut that damn bird of yours up before I do it for you,” Constance sneers, polishing some of her silverware in a passive aggressive way. 

 

Tate doesn’t respond, just sits on the couch and stares at the picture frames hanging on the wall adjacent to him. He’s only in a few, the rest are of Addie and his mother’s old headshots from when her dream was to be a silver screen star. 

“Now I’ve tolerated you and your silly little pet but to have a fowl from off the streets is just… well, it’s just  _ foul,”  _ Constance continues her nagging. The chirping from upstairs does not stop. 

 

“She’s purebred,” Tate mumbles beneath his breath. 

 

“I don’t care  _ what  _ it is, do you know what kinds of diseases birds carry? You’ve practically brought polio into our house and I’ve had enough of it!” She huffs, “You do something about that poultry of yours before we have fried chicken for dinner, Tate.”

 

Tate sighs and stands from the couch, his limbs heavy as if his body is being weighed down by lead. He feels as if he’s already died, a walking corpse hardening beneath the effects of rigor mortis. He heads upstairs, each step creaking and groaning as he has to haul himself up. He doesn’t have the energy to make it all the way upstairs, but he doesn’t want to piss his mother off any further than her usual complaints. 

 

Just as Tate is rounding the corner of the staircase to the hallway, he hears a deafening silence fill the house as Annabel’s songs are silenced. Then, as if the lull was just a temporary deafness, her melodies resume in a more frantic, scared tune. 

 

Tate approaches his bedroom, the door wide open as his brother stands in front of her cage. Tate sees Annabel’s white feathers ruffling between his brother’s massive hands, so he shakes his head and starts to rush over to her rescue. 

 

“What are you doing in my room? Don’t come in here and play with my pets without asking,” Tate curses, causing Beauregard to jump up as he didn’t realize Tate had entered. “Put her back!”

 

Beau looks up, his labored breathing through his cleft mouth sounding wet and slobbery. He looks back down at the puny bird in his hands, her songs sounding as shrill as tendrils of panic. Tate pushes his brothers shoulder a bit, trying to reach for his bird, but only scaring Beau even more by approaching him so physically. 

 

Beau’s hands squeeze, and Annabel’s songs become less of a symphony and more of a scream. Tate begins to panic, knowing what Beau does to rabbits and shrews out in the garden when he gets too excited. He can hear the way Annabel’s chirps are breathless and forced, his brother’s scarred knuckles turning white from pressure. 

 

“Beau, stop, put her down, okay?” He talks quietly, holding his hands out. “You’re hurting her. You’re hurting her-“

 

There’s a snap, and then a crackle as her bones crumble within Beau’s tight grasp. The screaming comes to an immediate stop, and Tate feels his lungs collapse in on themselves like a balled up piece of paper catching fire. He freezes in his spot, arms still outstretches as he watches the way that Beau’s hands loosen up on a limp body. 

 

The thing about white feathers is that it makes the blood leaking from her tiny, tiny little eyes so very vibrant against a stark white face. 

 

The shock wears off quickly, being replaced with rage as fast as Beau snapped her neck. He brings his hands up to his head, the voices all bubbling up over one another and yelling to be heard, but Tate can’t listen to any of them by his own frantic breaths that are turning into hyperventilated pants. 

 

“What did you do? What did you  _ fucking  _ do?! You- You fucking monster! You killed her! Get the fuck out of my room! Get out!” Tate screams, his voice echoing through the silence of the room. He never thought that Annabel would be the first death this room would see, but all the voices in Tate’s head are screaming that it certainly won’t be the last. 

 

Beau stands paralyzed in fear, cowering beneath his malevolent brother. Tate has always scared them, especially now that he’s hurting more than ever. When he’s hurting, he hurts the ones around him as well. Anger boils and burns inside him. 

 

“Bird,” Beau cries out, holding the dead body out towards a very animated Tate. “Make sad! Make sad! Beau stop sad!”

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ did you do!” Tate can hear his mother’s high heels rushing up the stairs now, but he doesn’t care. He pushes on his brother’s chest, the confused child stumbling backwards as he then cradles the corpse close to his chest. “She didn’t make me sad! She was all I fucking had left! The only thing that  _ he  _ gave me that still fucking mattered! You- You-“

 

It all becomes too much for him in that moment, his shoulders shaking as he heaves out a heavy sob and wraps his arms around himself. The voices in his head are way too loud, and as Tate sinks to his knees on the floor, he starts to wonder if Annabel’s chirps were the only thing that were keeping those voices away. 

 

That bird was the symbol of their love, given to him as a gift for Tate to feel in control of his own life for once. That’s been ripped out from underneath him, just as the life was ripped from his unsuspecting pet. Annabel was the only thing Tate had left that kept him hopeful, but she’s just been brutally murdered like everything else that Tate’s loved. 

 

He thinks his mother is comforting Beau. He’s not sure. He can’t hear, and his eyes blur too much with tears to see what’s happening in front of him. He sits on the floor, arms wrapped over his head, rocking back and forth as he tries to make all the yelling stop. His head hurts. His body hurts. He lost Annabel. 

 

He lost Tyler. 

 

[***]

 

Tate stands in the kitchen, the phone pressed to his ear, his hands clammy and cold. The phone rings, and it rings, and it rings. He looks down at the letter in his shaking hand, the words running through his mind as he reads it once more. 

  
  


_ Call me. Please. I’ve put you through hell.  _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ yours.  _

 

The letter has been in Tate’s possession for days now. He came home to find it resting against his pillow, no known source. Tyler works in mysterious ways, so Tate didn’t question it for too long. The words inside shook up all healing he’s been pathetically trying to do, filling him up with a false hope so fast that it popped like a balloon that same night when his mind came crashing down to remind him of why things didn’t work out in the first place. Then, he repeated that routine of building himself up just to fall for days. 

 

Today, he finally went downstairs and dialed the number that has been called so frequently that the numbers are starting to fade on the landline. Constance was baking when he entered, and when she saw him holding the letter, she quickly left the room to give him privacy. Tate didn’t notice, he was too preoccupied with the panic attack he was internalizing in that moment. 

 

The phone stops ringing, silence filling Tate’s ear. The energy is there, however. The nervous, uncertain energy that the two share. 

 

“...Hello?” Tyler asks after a few minutes pass. 

 

Tate exhales at the sound of his voice, countless nights flooding his mind as he remembers all the stories he’s sat and listened to Tyler tell him. 

 

“Hey,” Tate responds, his eyes fluttering close. He’s needed this. He’s needed this so much. 

 

“Oh,” Tyler says, but doesn’t sound very surprised. He’s been waiting for Tate to call, but after radio silence for the first month, he figured that the blonde didn’t want to invite the chaotic hurricane back into his life. “Oh. Tate.”

 

“I listened to the words,” Tate says, “I didn’t before. I wasn’t listening to you or what you were trying to tell me. But I listened now, I  _ heard _ the words. I was a birdcage and you were meant to fly.”

 

There’s a silence on the other line, a thick tension sliding between the two like a brick wall. Tate’s nervous attitude doesn’t allow him to dwell on one thought long enough to be embarrassed, he’s too caught up on catching the one who didn’t want to be caught. 

 

“Okay,” Tyler’s voice is quiet, afraid. “Okay. Can I see you? This doesn’t seem like something that we should be doing over the phone.”

 

Tate responds fast, unhesitant. “I can be over in five minutes. We can meet up somewhere if you want. You can come over, too.”

 

It’s a lot for Tyler, a massive tsunami of feelings coming over him all at once. He takes a few cautious breaths, and then tells the male “You can come over.”

 

Tate nods, though he knows Tyler can’t see. He inhales so much air that he’s not sure his body can even handle that much, but then exhales the words “Flying home.” 

 

“...Just come over. Be safe, too.” 

 

A little reminder that sends Tate whirling into the black hole of possibilities. Are things going to be better between them? Will they get back on track? It’s like an empty lighter is coughing all it’s fluid out, but Tate keeps trying to ignite a flame. He’s destined, incessant for what he needs. A warm flame to thaw the winter. 

 

Tate arrives at the house in an impressive time, noticing the gate left open towards the backyard. He rounds around the back of the house, his eyes fixated up on the tall window he’s had to climb many nights before. 

 

“Hey,” a voice says, which earns Tate’s attention. 

 

Tyler is sitting on the steps of the back porch, his tiny frame a bit more sickly than the last time that Tate saw him. His hairs grown out over the months, it’s also been bleached a spotty blonde color to match Tate’s. His eyes are heavy with sadness, his skin tinted grey and lacking that usual flustered complexion. 

 

Tate puts his hands in his pockets, his eyes falling over the way Tyler’s knees press together tightly. There’s a spot on the stairs next to him, so Tate steps forward to claim that position. 

 

At first, the two don’t say anything. The sky is that shy shade of blue where it’s just starting to get dark, the homely shade that stars start to sparkle in. 

 

“Your hair is different,” Tate speaks up. He folds his arms over his chest, his legs folded over one another. 

 

Tyler takes a deep breath in, one that implies he’s got a lot to say. Instead of saying any of it, he just slumps over to the side until his head is on Tate’s shoulder. Once they make that physical contact, Tate feels the seal break and some tension releases from where his shoulder blades were swelling. 

 

“Yeah,” Tyler takes a breath in. “I hate it. But a box of hair dye is cheaper than therapy.”

 

“Maybe I’ll dye mine black,” Tate says openly, ruffling his own hair. 

 

A silence comes over them, one where Tyler’s cheek presses into him tightly as if he’s trying to become one so that they can’t be separated again. 

 

“You aren’t a birdcage,” Tate states, just to get the ball rolling. He’d love to just sit here and enjoy the boy on his arm, but not addressing the issues is what got them into this mess in the first place. He’s not going to let Tyler shut him out, not this time. “Is that how you felt?”

 

Tyler is quiet when he responds, but it’s rehearsed, like he was waiting on Tate to say it. “You wanted to fly away when things got too crazy. We were going down that hole, and you weren’t flying away, but I don’t know why. I think I kept you locked into this relationship, even though it  _ was  _ getting bad. Or I think I was making it bad and you were just letting me. I was a birdcage, and you were meant to fly.”

 

Tate nods for a moment, then turns and says “You weren’t a cage. You didn’t keep me locked in. I didn’t think our relationship was so bad, I was happiest when I was with you. Things made sense, and not just because I was codependent. It was different, it really felt like the world was making sense because the missing piece was finally there.” 

 

Tyler shrugs, an action Tate can feel rather than see. “I thought you were my dove, but I think I clipped your wings.”

 

“Not all birds are made for the sky,” Tate remarks. “I’m happy being a penguin or something. They don’t fly, they’re just super loyal to their partners.”

 

Tyler laughs, empty and hollow. “Bunnies and penguins don’t live together.”

 

“These two do,” Tate says, reaching his hand over to settle on top of Tyler’s knee. 

 

“Not a penguin,” Tyler remarks, “Something else. You’ve wanted to fly away for so long, but I’m starting to think you really are a flightless bird.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Tate says. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

 

Tyler sits up, a bit confused and overall alarmed by that question. He stands up on the porch steps, descending down into his backyard. Tate watches his friend admire the rising moon, but Tate is focused on the star in front of him. 

 

“What if…” Tyler wraps his little arms around himself, his finger playing with a loose thread hanging off the sleeve of his sweater. “What if I’m not good for anything else but running away?”

 

“You also once thought you were going to end up being a serial killer just because you have a personality disorder,” Tate points out. “The media will paint your illnesses as the villain, but you don’t have to follow those stereotypes, bub. If you want to be in love, then let yourself be in love.”

 

Tyler rubs his face in confusion, asking “And what about you?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I’ve wanted you,” Tate says, then frowns a bit at the simplicity of his statement. Tyler deserves more, it’s just hard to find the right words to accurately depict what he’s feeling. After all, he’s not the writer here. “What I wanted was for both of us to figure out how to be better, but in unison. I wanted for us to be in love, and to forget about any harm we’ve caused because now we have each other.”

 

Tyler is silent for a few moments, and then he turns quietly to Tate, his voice as clear as a desperate prayer. “We can’t just  _ forget _ , Tate. We have to learn and grow.”

 

“So let me water your garden,” Tate says. “You can trim my weeds. We’ll grow if we just tend to each other the way we should have.”

 

Tyler looks at him for a long time, not blinking away or turning his head shyly like he’s typically prone to doing. He stares, and Tate just lets him. Tyler is searching for something, and Tate will allow that compass to point towards whatever it is he’s looking for. 

 

Tyler doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either.

 

_ [***] _

 

“It’s peaceful,” Tyler breaks the silence. 

 

Tate glances up from where they’re sitting at a park bench, looking at how Tyler’s head is turned to watch the scenery around them. 

 

Fall has begun to creep up on the pair, golden and auburn leaves falling all around them like petals from a rose that’s wilted. Summer ended with a slow death, but Tate was eager to leave it behind. 

 

“Yeah?” Tate asks, watching the way Tyler’s little hands tighten around his iced coffee. 

 

An acorn hits the table they’re sitting at, which seems to snap Tyler out of his trance. The boy tucks some bleached hair behind his ear, then resumes his work on the notes he’s been taking. Tate isn’t sure what the newest project is, they still have yet to open back up to one another. Lately, all they do is meet up so that they can be near each other. Most days, Tate just sits. He’s fine just sitting if it’s near Tyler, it makes the silence less violent. 

 

Tate speaks up “My therapist thinks we have an unhealthy relationship.”

 

Tyler’s hand stops writing for a moment, his body stilling at the disruption of silence. Then, as quickly as he halted, he continues writing. “Romello?”

 

“No,” Tate says. His fingertips trace along the graffitti on top of the park table, hearts drawn in sharpie with the initials of people who are probably broken up by now. He wonders if that’s what he and Tyler will be, just a fossil of a relationship etched into history for someone else to look at with pity. “I’m seeing someone new. She says we’re unhealthy.”

 

“We are,” Tyler remarks. 

 

“I don’t  _ want  _ to be,” Tate says. 

 

“We’re trying,” Tyler says. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t stop writing, just continues on with the silence he’s been comfortable in for the past two weeks. 

 

Tate sighs, looking back out at the line of trees starting to turn yellow. Up in the sky, birds begin to fly south for the winter, only reminding Tate that the cold, harsh winter is going to be as unforgiving and cruel as the boy sitting across from him. 

 

Tate looks back at his friend, if he can even call Tyler that, and he decides that he’s tired of letting things spiral out like this. He let Violet decide too much, he let her push him away whenever, he told her he cared about her feelings more than his. He’s not going to let that happen with Tyler too.

 

Tate’s hand reaches across the table to take the pencil from Tyler’s hand, earning the attention of the boy that’s been giving him the silent treatment. He doesn’t look mad or annoyed, just confused about why Tate took his pencil in the first place. 

 

“Why do you come here?” Tate asks, gesturing around to their park bench. Sometimes, they’ll meet up in the cemetery, but Tyler’s decided suddenly that’s too morbid for either of them. 

 

“It’s peaceful,” Tyler repeats. 

 

“Then why do I come here?” Tate asks. “If you want silence, why do you keep inviting me?”

 

Tyler pauses for a moment, then proceeds to explain “Because it’s more comfortable with you around, I guess. When it’s just me, my brain is so… noisy. But when you’re around, it-“

 

“Stops the noise?” Tate finishes his sentence, then nods. “I know. That’s why I keep coming. But I need more than this, Ty. I need to know if you’re going to commit to that, or if you’re going to lead me on. You’ve already broken my heart once, and that was a privilege. If you break it a second time…”

 

“I don’t intend to,” Tyler says quietly, looking up towards the flock of birds sailing over them. All of them are flying away from the incoming storms, but Tate was born with the inability to fly. His mind works different than most, Tyler knows that. He tries so hard to fly away, but his snipped wings won’t let him. It’s not his fault he was born a flightless bird. “I think I’m just a little scared, because I don’t think I really deserve to have this second chance.”

 

“Fuck it,” Tate shrugs. “This will be our redemption arc. Fuck everything that’s happened up until this point, okay? We were different then, we were lonely. Now we have each other, okay? Let’s make this the redemption arc.”

 

“You can’t rewrite stories, Tate,” Tyler sighs a little tiredly. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” 

 

“But we can write the ending,” Tate says. “Let’s just drop the angsty metaphors, man. I love you, Tyler. And I don’t want to  _ stop _ loving you, so just quit with the bullshit and let me. You deserve it, don’t try to tell me that you don’t.”

 

Tyler inhales, blinks a few times, and nods. “Okay, so let’s be in love.”

 

Tate smiles a little, Tyler’s eyes falling towards that dimple caving in on his cheek. “You mean it?”

 

“We’re young,” Tyler says, “But… you’re right. I don’t want my mental illness to deny me this happiness. You deserve more,  _ I  _ deserve more. I’m tired of denying myself the right to what makes me happy.” 

 

The clouds seem to part away, igniting the flames of autumn bonfires to spark and crackle in Tate’s mind. The embers will keep him warm, even if they have the chance to burn him. 

 

[***]

 

Tyler drives twenty miles over the speed limit, the cassette tape playing their favorite love songs. Tate gifted it to the boy as a welcome back present, all the songs that rattle around in Tate’s mind when he sees his other half. 

 

Tate rolls his head over, the windows down. One of his hands holds onto Tyler’s arm, his bicep flexing beneath Tate’s grasp each time he turns the steering wheel. Tate’s other hand hangs out the window, waving through the October breeze. The world smells like burning leaves and decay, chestnuts and smashed pumpkins. 

 

Tyler nods his head along to the music, lost in his little mind. They don’t have as many bad nights anymore, but that doesn’t mean they just stopped happening. Tyler still gets depressed just as much as Tate gets explosive, but now, he  _ talks  _ to Tate about it. They’ve gotten so much closer, it’s hard to believe that Tate was in love even before he knew about all the secretive parts of Tyler’s mind. 

 

“Where are we going?” Tate asks over the music, his hand sliding against the boy’s inner arm. They wear each other’s clothes these days, which isn’t much of a problem. Tyler buys his shirts two sizes too big anyways, they fit Tate snug. Tate is wearing a deftones shirt despite the fact he only knows a few of their songs, but it smells like Tyler, so he will continue to pretend as if he’s their biggest fan. 

 

Tyler shrugs, smiles. “I don’t know.”

 

They stop in the parking lot of a convenience store, where Tate suggests they should buy eggs to taunt and cause mischief with on Halloween. Tyler nods, fixated on touching each of Tate’s fingers individually. The smaller boy kisses the protruding knuckles of Tate’s hands, smiling against the skin. 

 

“What?” Tate asks, tucking his fingers under the boy’s chin in order to lift his face up enough to see the way the golden sun hits his emerald eyes. 

 

“Nothing,” Tyler shrugs. “I just love you, dude. I seriously do.”

 

Tate shifts around in his seat, the seatbelt pressing down on his racing chest. He smiles, asking “Me?”

 

“You,” Tyler kisses the back of Tate’s hand. “In love, I think.”

 

There’s a big step for the two of them, especially after the misery they’ve both been through. Tate can see the inner scars, he can see how they’re all healing. Tyler’s mind plummeted for a few months, but this statement alone proves that he’s doing his best to climb the rocky trench he’s been stuck at the bottom of. 

 

“I’m in love with you,” Tate replies, his hands tightening around Tyler’s. “We’re in  _ love _ .”

 

“I guess we are,” Tyler unbuckles his seatbelt so that he can stretch across the seat and wrap his arms around Tate’s neck. As they hug, he presses kisses to the side of Tate’s head. The spikes of his choker press into Tate’s shoulder painfully, but neither of the two mind the discomfort. 

 

“It’ll hurt less from now on, right?” Tate whispers against the boy’s cheek.

 

“Hopefully,” Tyler responds, letting his boyfriend go. 

 

Tate says, “Will you go out with me? ...Again?”

 

Tyler laughs, a sound that brings Tate more joy than he would have ever thought another human could give him. It’s such a beautiful sound, it makes up for all the times he’s had to listen to Tyler cry. No mixtape could ever compare to the way Tate feels smitten whenever he hears that laugh. 

 

He doesn’t hesitate to reply and say, “Yes, absolutely, of course.”

 

No games, no turning him down, no stubborn fights. Just them, always going to be just them. 

 

[***]

 

“I’m sorry,” Tyler says quietly, his voice crackling like the fire in front of them. 

 

“Don’t be,” Tate responds just as soft, adjusting the log in the fireplace cautiously. Embers fly up through the chimney, sparkling little glows that reflect in Tyler’s glassy eyes. 

 

“Feeling warmer?” Tate asks, sitting back on the floor to rejoin his boyfriend. 

 

Tyler crumples over, his head falling into Tate’s lap and his arms wrapping tightly around the denim clad leg he rests against. Tate sighs, his hand heavy on Tyler’s shoulder, but still a comfort nonetheless.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tate asks. He and Tyler fell asleep on the couch, but Tate was woken up in the dead of the night by shaky hands touching his face to make sure he wasn’t dead. 

 

“I’m just so scared that one day this won’t be enough for you,” Tyler whispers, the blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “I dreamt about you killing yourself, and I can’t stand the thought of it. I don’t want you to go.”

 

“I won’t,” Tate speaks quietly. He won’t lie, he’s thought of it a few times whenever he’s been having rough days, but his common sense always picks back up and he remembers that he has people who depend on him. “Not anymore. I’m okay now, really.”

 

“But what if you’re just lying?” Tyler sniffles, “What if you don’t want to hurt me? I went through hell without you, Tate. I don’t want to do that again, I don’t want to say another goodbye.”

 

“Tyler, I promise you, I am not going anywhere,” Tate strokes the boy’s hair. 

 

The two are quiet for a few moments, the firewood finally catching some flames and spreading a heat through the cold living room. Winter’s starting to show her head, but a slight snowfall isn’t the reason why Tyler is shaking so much. 

 

“You won’t?” Tyler asks after a few moments. His hands tighten around Tate’s leg. 

 

“No, baby,” Tate whispers, stroking his lover’s cheek. 

 

“Okay,” Tyler nods, “Okay, sorry. Sorry for doubting you. I just feel so fucking  _ scared  _ sometimes, I don’t- I don’t know.”

 

“It’s okay to not know,” Tate says in a gentle voice, “I’ll help you figure it out. Until we do, just know that I’ll always be here. Always.”

 

Tyler coughs out the last of his spluttering sighs, and as the fire sets an amber glow against his exhausted features, Tate comes to realize that the boy is no devil or angel at all. 

 

He’s just a human. That’s all he’s ever been. 

 

[***]

 

Tyler comes out of the bathroom, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He rubs his hair with a towel, water droplets dripping all down his body like beads of condensation gathering on the petals of soaked roses. 

 

Tate looks up from where he’s lying on the floor, a book in his hands. He watches Tyler stop at the foot of his bed, then turn his attention towards Tate on the floor. 

 

“What do you think?” Tyler asks, letting the towel hang off of his shoulders. He ruffles his wet hair, the blackened strands falling over his face. He always looks so much angrier whenever he doesn’t have his glasses on. 

 

“You look like you,” Tate puts the book down, twisting his thumb ring a bit. “Like, in a good way. You look like yourself again.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Tyler comes over and lowers himself down onto Tate’s stomach as gently as possible, straddling his idle hips. “Blonde really isn’t my thing. I don’t know why I decided to fuck with my hair. It was a lot cheaper than therapy, though.”

 

Tate’s eyes fall over the heart tattoo, something that was once etched apart. Tate knows the lyrics now, he understood the symbolism of that single rocky mountain range heartbroken like. 

 

_ You are a broken heart tattoo I’ll have forever on my chest. For a love that I have lost, but never could forget. _

 

Now, that tattoo is healed over from where Tyler asked Tate to fill it in. Despite the tattoo itself being the size of a dime, it took hours for Tate to fill in the heart with all the red ink. It was worth it entirely though, for now the heart that Tate gave Tyler is one that’s filled to the brim. He’s whole again, finally. 

 

Tate’s hands come up to touch the body on top of his, his fingertips ghosting along the outlines of every scar healed over Tyler’s navel. Some are deep, and it kills him to think about the boy in so much pain.

 

“Stop, man,” Tyler pushes his hands away. “Don’t touch there.”

 

“I just wanted to say that I’m proud,” Tate lifts his eyes up to the fresh green eyes. “Seriously. I know it’s not easy to get over this kind of shit, but look at this… all healed.”

 

Tyler grabs Tate’s hand a bit cautiously, his fingers molding in the palm like a cat kneads anything squishy. Then, he slowly turns Tate’s arm over, his other hand pushing the male’s sleeve up. He reads the raised lines like Braille on human skin, quietly whispering “You’re strong, too.”

 

There it is. The shining moment that finally brings the two of them around to where they should have started this entire relationship; equals. 

 

“Tyler, I know I put you on too high of a pedestal. I think that’s what screwed with your head so much, and I’m sorry for that. I think you deserve… so much, but I think I deserve it too.”

 

Tyler nods, bringing Tate’s hand up to his mouth so that he can kiss the boy’s knuckles. Tate nuzzles his hand against the boy’s youthful cheek, the tips of his fingers getting wet from Tyler’s freshly dyed hair. Tyler says, “We both do, T. We need to stop… stop comparing ourselves to each other, stop trying to self destruct just to let the other one thrive. It’s killing us.”

 

“I feel like I’ve been so lost without you,” Tate says softly. “Nobody understands me the way you do. I was so, so lost before this.”

 

Tyler smiles ever so slyly, saying in a dreamy singsong voice “Have I found you, flightless bird?”

 

Tate knows this song. He’s learned to listen to the words when Tyler plays them, he recognizes the verse from one of the more ethereal ballads that Tyler flocks towards. Tate thinks it’s a good skill to have, he’s more apt to paying attention to details now. Before Tyler, he was just blindly stumbling through life. Now, he stops to smell the roses that are planted between lyrics. 

 

“Or lost you, American mouth?” Tate responds, his voice much more monotone. He may know the words, but he does not sing. 

 

Tyler breaks into a grin. A conclusion, a loose end tied into a knot unbreakable. Tyler trusts this one, for it's the first knot he’s tied that hasn’t been a noose. The world spins a bit more smoothly now that the rocky disruption of his mind isn’t causing cerebral earthquakes so often, but perhaps Tate had something to do with the evacuation of bad thoughts. Either way, he’s certain of one thing. 

 

He is entirely in love with Tate, in every sense of the word. He’s not afraid of it this time either, because he knows Tate isn’t going to hurt him. Not anymore. Tate listens to the words that Tyler shares, and he sings them back with twice as much affection. 

 

“You could never lose me,” Tyler breaks the song references, leaning down enough to press his lips to Tate’s forehead. There’s not much to cure there anymore, no stirring brain chemicals to be calmed. Tate’s mind isn’t full of hurricanes and tsunamis anymore, he’s learning to float with someone he thought would be an iceberg. 

 

Tate holds onto Tyler’s hands, always so gentle, and he thinks that they figured it out. Their shitty little tale, their love story of tragedy and heartbreak. They wrote it together, though. It’s entirely theirs. They used to be worried about someone taking that away from them, so scared of disapproving mothers forbidding their love, but the two never realized that their own minds would be the traitor in the end. 

 

A happy ending never seemed likely for these two, but Tate can hear the song playing in his head like a symphony of angels serenading him from where the clouds have parted to allow heaven’s grace to cascade down onto these two ordinary humans. A happy ending was unlikely, sure, but they still fought for it. 

 

This has been Tate’s greatest noble war, but perhaps his final, for he has won everything he needs. 


End file.
